


White Shadows

by goodafternoon



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-14 10:38:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 302,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodafternoon/pseuds/goodafternoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. 1862, the North has started the draft. Santana follows her father to war, intent on proving her worth as a doctor. Brittany enlists in place of her father, intent on keeping her family safe. In this broken land, they find a home in each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to faradayconstant for getting my my AO3 account! :) I'll be sure to get what I have of the story up here and update with the last 3 chapters when I post those up on ff.net as well. Hope you all enjoy!

**Cincinnati, Ohio. June 1858**

Santana Lopez hates the smell of her father's practice. Especially his operating room. It reeks of mold, faux finery and what she believes sepsis would smell like if you could capture the bacterial scent from within the still warm blood of the dying. All metallic and decayed, much like the cleavers hanging from the rusted hooks in the butcher shop below. As she sets about preparing the table for the next patient she can't help but wonder why, with all that's clearly wrong in it, her father's medical practice is still the most revered in the city. For years she felt it must have been a joke at his expense. She could imagine the town people, whispering behind her parents back.

' _Wouldn't it be a riot? To bring the foreigner up only to tear him down later? The laughs we'd have!'_

Her parent's were always telling her; _"Let nothing, and no one, stand in your way."_ After all, wasn't that the family motto? Isn't that how they got to this status in the first place? It might as well have been emblazed on the family crest. It's completely lost on her why he seems to have forgotten this. Couldn't he see what this town was doing to him? The stares they received as they walked down the square? How could he think they truly valued his opinion? Dark skin, even as light as theirs was, wasn't trusted. It was a simple fact of life, one that was not soon going to change.

 _Not ever_ , Santana thinks as she takes extra care to wash her hands in the basin she'd filled with fresh water earlier.

She was used to the scorn shown to her during her days at school, the mocking that followed her down the streets. _Jealous, all of them_ , she'd think as she held her head high and made her way home. They couldn't compete with her, not on any level. In academics she had them beat, in wealth her family was unmatched and even compared to her grace her peers were mere floundering fish upon land. And fish did not a sufficient acquaintance make. The ones who dared to speak to her were quickly silenced with a cutting affront. Some of the more fortunately blessed realized the gain her friendship could offer. Santana could not be bothered by friendship, though. Not with people who reeked of commonalty.

Not when they so plainly stood in her way.

She would be great. Would rise above the skin she was born into and make a name for herself. One with even more clout than her father. More prestige.

Many a potential friendship was dashed in favor of maintaining her due course. A mask of indifference was worn upon her face from morn till dusk. Her classmates could whisper all they wanted behind her back. Call her whatever petty names they felt fit to squawk her way. It was all just a rouse to her. She would not fall to their traps. They could not hurt her, not if she was untouchable.

Her mother had taught her early on that friendship was only as worthwhile as the rewards that could be reaped in return. None of her classmates could, nor would ever, be able to supply her with such an advantageous exchange.

 _Good heavens_ , she thinks back now, _were they ever the dullest and stupidest beings to be born_. She wished her father had enrolled her in the private academy uptown. Where the boys were groomed to become well to do members of society. Future lawyers, bankers, politicians and the like. Where the girls wore dresses of the finest silk and studied only the most renowned literature.

Where everyone was intelligent and most importantly _respected_.

"They won't take you, Santana," her father told her upon what felt her hundredth request. "And besides it's far too expensive and a waste anyway. What more of an education can a woman need beyond the basics? Your husband will attend to all else for you."

She seethed afterward. Yet despite the crumbling feeling inside her gut she maintained her outward decorum, brushing down her pleated skirt as she retaliated between clenched teeth, "I wish to be more than just _a wife_." It was uncouth, and entirely unbecoming to speak in such a manner to one's father. Let alone one's father who also so happened to be so highly regarded in the town, who at that very moment happened to be in the middle of entertaining a few equally regarded guests.

His jaw tightened subtly beneath his trim beard. An indistinguishable twitch pulled at his left eye.

Her mother quickly, and casually, offered Mr. Brandisham another cigar.

She vividly remembers what happened next. The clipped tone of her father's voice as he stood from his seat and excused himself politely. The way his fingernails, blunt and short as they were, seemed to pierce her skin as he took hold of her upper arm. The smell of the liquor upon his tongue as his breath washed over her face, his voice low as he demanded her silence and led her from the room and up the stairs to her own. The resounding slap and subsequent sting of pain that radiated from her cheek after the back of his hand collided with her face. The pain his words instilled in her heart as he admitted how worthless her existence was.

He'd no use for a daughter.

Not when what he needed was a son.

He left her then to head back down to his guests. His only child, a mess of resentment sitting upon her heels on the cold wooden floor. She cursed him beneath her breath, wincing at the dull ache throbbing along her bruised cheek. It would heal, she was sure. If she could tend to it properly it would heal in only a week's time. But she feared that the hurt his words had lodged inside of her would remain forever.

She was of no use to him.

And thus she would have to prove him otherwise.

Prove she could do more than any son he could hope to have.

_Better._

What started as penance for her disobedience turned quickly to menial work upon completion of her schooling. Everyday she was to accompany him on appointments. His own personal servant. Her only orders were to be silent and follow instruction. It was degrading work. Her duties seemed to mainly consist of carrying his medical bag and disposing of the worst in human waste. When she wasn't with him she was beside her mother, being introduced to one potential suitor after another. As the boys talked on of their accomplishments (or lack thereof) she wished her father would receive news of an ill patient. Or perhaps that the roof over their heads would suddenly erupt into flames. And her favorite of late, that a wayward razor would come and silence their boring tongues. _Anything_ that would whisk her from the dull conversations she was forced to endure.

Her prayers always went unanswered. And the next day she would wake as she always did, far before the sun would peak over the surrounding hills and long before her father would rouse from his sleep. She'd steal into his study and pour over the medical journals he'd acquired over the years. She never thought medicine would fascinate her, let alone that she'd be so excited over the prospect of bearing witness to a surgery some day. But it did. With every new addition that would arrive her father would skim, then scoff at before tossing aside. And she would readily consume them. He'd no patience for modern medicine, let alone the findings of the new movement of doctors in France. The surgeons in Paris were revolutionary. Pioneers to Santana. Germ theory, anesthetics, oh she could read forever about the procedures they'd discovered and the advances they'd made! All of it was incredible.

And when she'd read of Doctor Elizabeth Blackwell she knew that a career in medicine was a reality she too could aspire to. She knew she'd never get the chance to study medicine at college like Blackwell. Her father would never allow it. But she soon realized she didn't need to. Her father never attended formal school and look at his success. God, look at the success of any of the physicians in town! Of the ten she could name off the top of her head perhaps one had attended medical college and practiced with a license. It didn't seem to matter where one was taught so long as one was knowledgeable.

Santana already knew far more about most diseases and simple ailments than any predecessor her father could summon. She could be his apprentice. And one day, hopefully, she could take on his practice once he passed.

The first female doctor in Cincinnati. No, in _all_ of Ohio. She liked the sound of it.

She looks around the operating room, imagining all the changes she'd make the day it is to become her own. The wallpaper, with its garish maroon hue, would be the first thing to go. A light blue perhaps in its stead, a calming color, _the sky_ , something to ease the patient's mind. She can hear her father welcoming a young man into the practice, voice full of feigned warmth and clipped professionalism. She resists the urge to roll her eyes. For some god forsaken reason the people of this town trust in that voice. In her pathetic excuse for a father. But she understands why they come to him.

After all, given their chances of survival with the other physicians in the city, Dr. Lopez with his dark skin and foreign tongue is far and above superior in the practice of medicine.

At least with her father you had a marginally higher chance of surviving beneath his knife.

Santana was very good at mathematics. To her five percent barely classified as a worthwhile advantage.

But an advantage it was.

And as Santana watches him working now all she can think is how much better she'd be in his place. The simple procedure has been underway for a mere seven minutes and yet her father's brow is drenched with sweat, threatening to spill into the open wound of his unconscious patient below. _He should have worn a cap_ , she laments, reaching forward with her own handkerchief to wipe the beads of perspiration before they can slip further down his face. He grunts something in response, shaking her off as his fingers nimbly work on prying the bullet buried within his patient's naked thigh.

Her nose crinkles beneath the mask of cloth placed snugly over the lower half of her face as she spots some dirt beneath her father's bloodied fingernails. _Of course he hadn't bothered to wash them first_ , she thinks with a roll of her eyes. Cleanliness was not something most physicians in this town ever considered. They were old and set in their ways. No amount of evidence brought forth from the younger surgeons at Cambridge could ever sway them. Not until one of their "own" kind agreed.

She's lost count of the times she's heard proclaimed, "Invisible make-believe specs are what kill a man? Nonsense!"

Maybe if someone else with dirty fingers were digging around in their muscles they would perhaps consider changing their minds. But that was as likely as her father ever saying one positive thing toward her.

Unlikely, improbable, and only ever to happen if she were to inject him with an ungodly amount of morphine.

"Hand me the tweezers," he demands, hand outstretched. Santana is snapped from her thoughts at the command and turns to the tools beside her. They appear clean but she knows the most her father has done is wipe them on his coat. With an inward sigh she picks up the tweezers and lays them firmly in his palm.

As her father digs into the wound the patient's foot twitches. Santana's brow quirks upon realizing it is the foot on his good leg. Her eyes are quick to seek the young mans face. As suspected his lips are pursed, eyes squeezed shut. He's waking.

"Father?" Santana ventures quietly, handing him a napkin as more blood seeps from the wound. He takes it silently, ignoring her as he mops up the mess on the patients thigh.

The young man lets out a moan.

Santana quickly reaches into her pocket, extracting the vial of chloroform. She makes to move toward a fresh linen square along the counter when her father's bloodied hand wraps tightly around her wrist, stilling her in place. Her eyes dart up, locking upon her father's intolerant gaze.

"I did not give you an order," he hisses, dark eyes narrowing beneath his lowered brow.

Santana breaks her father's stare, eyes flittering over the pained face of his…no, _their_ patient. Steeling her nerves she ventures, "he's waking. A small dose more would ensure his comfort."

Dr. Lopez scoffs, releasing his daughter with a shove as he returns to his work, oblivious to his patients continued sounds of discomfort. Beneath his breath he mutters, "it's his own damn fault he got himself shot. Pompous southern fool."

A scowl pulls at Santana's lips as she tells him, "if you detest him so I will volunteer to suture him once you are done."

"And have my good name sullied by your hand?" He counters, finally extracting the bullet and letting it fall to the floor without second thought. Dr. Lopez wipes his hands upon his chest, laughing as he turns to his daughter. "Actually, let this be a lesson to him," he says as he undoes the buttons to his suit jacket and slips the soiled garment from his shoulders. With practiced ease Santana avoids the material as he tosses it her way, grabbing the coat by its collar midair and laying it to rest over the prepared sheet along the foot of the table. Eyes practically dancing with mocking bitterness he motions toward the groggy patient. "By all means, do your worst."

His laughter carries over his shoulder as he leaves the room, presumably to retire to his office where no doubt Santana knows he will have gone to smoke. As the room falls silent once more save for the weak sounds of unease uttered from the patient, a grin forms across Santana's face.

She's in motion in an instant. Hands rewashed in the basin by the window, needle sterilized over an open flame. A small dose of chloroform ensures the young man won't feel a thing as she cleans the mess her father has made of what was once a small bullet hole and now resembles a much larger crater in his flesh. She deftly sews the wound shut, her work precise, clean and skilled. _Blackwell would be proud_ , she muses as she knots the last of her sutures and wraps the thigh with fresh bandages.

Her father returns to the room, smelling of rich pipe fumes and peppermint. He sucks on the confection, loud smacking noises echoing in the room as he looks upon his daughter's work. Santana stands still, hands clasped behind her back as she watches his shoulders tense and his jaw pop. His fingers dig in beneath the young man's bandage, pulling the wrapping back as he inspects the wound.

The bandage falls back into place with a snap upon his release. His eyes briefly glance toward her feet, jaw grinding hard against the peppermint. "I told you not to drug him again," he mutters before brushing past her and out the door once more.

Santana smiles to herself. _Flawless_ , she thinks. _My work is flawless._

* * *

**August 1862**

Mrs. Lopez sighs as she closes the door after yet another failed attempt to introduce her daughter to a would-be suitor. She rests back against the solid frame, chin pointed toward the ceiling as her eyes find those of her daughters across the foyer. After a deep, calming breath she asks with a hint of annoyance, "And what, pray tell, was wrong with him?"

A smirk curls to full lips. "Where do I begin?" Santana asks.

Mrs. Lopez groans, pulling herself away from the door as she makes her way into the drawing room. Santana follows, amusement still flittering across her features as she watches her mother slump down into one of the armchairs. "What am I to do with you? It's as if you don't even _wish_ to be married."

"I'd give you a prize mother, but seeing as it's taken you _years_ to finally realize this I hardly consider it a worthwhile victory."

Mrs. Lopez straightens in her chair as she levels her daughter with a reproachful stare. "No wonder men flee from our home, what with your tongue so full of acid."

" _Boys_ , mami," Santana corrects, plopping into the chair opposite her mother's. "Boys who hide behind their fathers' money whilst the _men_ fight in the war. And for whatever little my word seems to be worth in this house, you are indeed correct in your earlier assumption. I care not _one_ iota to be married right now."

"Por qué no?" Mrs. Lopez exclaims. "Have you any idea the embarrassment you are causing your father and I? To have a daughter at your age unwed! Dois mío! Lo que soy-"

"I am _such_ a burden, aren't I?" Santana interrupts, a tinge of melodrama laced in her voice. "What with not _whoring_ myself around town all the time," she says with a roll of her eyes. "I've more important things to worry about than who I will share a bed with."

Mrs. Lopez groans, frustrated as she stands from her seat. "You'll never be a doctor, Santana. The sooner you get this silly idea from your head _the_ _better_ ," she tells her, tone strong but expression tired. "You should be thankful your father even _allows_ you to continue on as his nurse aide."

"He's loath to admit it but he knows I am the _best_ in this city," Santana says, voice full of conviction as she stands and follows her mother's weary strides into the kitchen. "There is no one else who could replace me."

"I am done with this argument. It's given me a head-pain," Mrs. Lopez grumbles, rubbing at her temples gently.

"Oh, has it?" Santana sneers. "I could tell you how best to alleviate such a _burden_ but seeing as I will, in your misconstrued words, never amount to anything aside from being a pool in which to collect my husbands seed then I shan't. So buenas noches, _mami_." And with that she turns on her heels intent upon retiring for the evening. So ready to escape to her dreams where she's sure to be promised a far better substitute from the reality of her waking world.

But her steps are halted no sooner than she's started by her mother's call.

"Santana, _por favor_." It's pleading, soft, quite unlike the usual harsh snap of her mother's usual tone. Santana doesn't turn; she merely holds her position, eyes briefly flicking to her mother's shadow playing across the wall beside her. What could her mother wish to add? _Just keep walking_ , Santana wills herself. She's long accepted whatever humanity her parents once held to have died the minute she was brought into this world. Long given up hope for them to even show an inclination that they perhaps care for the daughter they have done so little to raise. Her mother's next words only serve to reinforce what she's already come to know.

"It is your duty to do what is _best_ for this family."

 _Of course_ , Santana thinks to herself, _it was foolish to ever think otherwise_. She swallows thickly past the lump lodged in her throat, not bothering to turn as she tells her, "I'm sorry I cannot summon death to take me faster then."

Her mother says nothing as Santana rushes up the stairs to hide the sting of her tears against her pillow.

* * *

Santana is awoken with a start. The slamming of a door to be more precise. She's out of bed in an instant, throwing open her bedroom door as she races down the stairs. It's been a year since the war begun and despite being far north of the fighting it isn't unheard of for skirmishes to erupt in town between northern and southern sympathizers. She's been roused enough times over the past few months to realize this is yet another of those instances. She can feel her earlier tears, dried and caked upon her cheeks, as she grabs her coat from the closet and pulls it over her shoulder. With the buttons now fastened she wipes the remnants of her earlier grief away furiously, refusing to waste one more moment on thoughts of her mother.

Her parents' voices carry throughout the home, loud and heated. It's then she realizes this isn't another typical night call.

She moves swiftly, careful to hide herself from view behind the armoire in the hall as she watches them argue. A single candle burns in the kitchen, the wax melting into a thick puddle on the table below. The sight of such negligence usually sends her mother into a frenzy, but instead her mother's frantic eyes are locked with the exasperated gaze of her father. The warm glow of the single flame flickers softly in contrast against their cold stares.

"No amount of your protests will change these summons," Dr. Lopez says, voice hoarse, strained with a stress Santana has never heard in his tone. Her brow crinkles with suspicion as she watches him read over a leaf of paper clutched in his hands. "I am to leave come morning."

"Don't say it like that," Mrs. Lopez scowls, batting aside the paper as he tries to hand it to her. "Like it's some patient you're off to see and will return come supper. This is _war_."

"And as such they need surgeons!" he exclaims, face red. "Do you think I asked for this? I can assure you if I could pay my way out I would have! Now ready what I need," he says dismissively with a flick of his wrist as he sits himself heavily down upon one of the kitchen chairs. "I am to be picked up come dawn."

"And what of your daughter?" Mrs. Lopez asks as she pours him a cup of coffee. She roughly hands it to him, avoiding his eyes as she busies herself with pouring her own mug. "What am I to do with her?"

Santana feels a fluttering deep within her gut, an apprehension that seems to wrap its cold claws about her throat as she awaits her father's response. He says nothing in reply, merely shrugs his shoulders as if the very act brushes her from his life. Santana feels her skin prickle with more than just apprehension. Hatred. A deep, mounting disgust bubbles inside her. He truly doesn't care. _He never will._

She won't let his indifference stand in the way of what she wants.

So it is much to her parents' surprise when she stands before them and tells them evenly, with utmost seriousness and conviction.

"I will accompany you."

"De ninguna manera!" Mrs. Lopez exclaims while Dr. Lopez looks on at his daughter with an expression of interest for what feels the first time in Santana's life. "Albert, tell her this is an absurd notion!"

He continues to stare, unmoving, unrelenting in his scrutiny. Santana holds his gaze, unwavering, willing her heart not to beat so profoundly against her ribs. She needs for him to allow this. For him to see just how devoted she is to her cause. To becoming the great doctor she knows she will be… to be the son he so vehemently wishes she were instead.

This is her chance to change everything.

Her lungs are starved for air.

After what feels a small eternity he shrugs and stands from his seat, steaming mug in hand as he says simply, "I don't really care to have to train someone new anyhow."

And that is how Santana Lopez finds herself enlisted as a surgeon's assistant in Ohio's 106th Infantry.

* * *

**Lima, Ohio. June 1858**

Brittany Pierce is warm, so very warm and surrounded by what she imagines sunshine must feel like if you could capture its rays in a spool of thread and sew them into a blanket. All soft and wonderful, like the way spring grass feels along her back after a swim in the lake. Or a nap in the barn on a fresh pile of hay. Or like– _oh no_ , she thinks, thoughts derailing swiftly as her body grows rigid in her bed. _The barn…Apple's stall._ With a defeated groan she rolls over on the mattress and buries her face deep into her pillow.

 _Pa will be so upset with me_ , she bemoans.

Because it's only now whilst dreaming of naps in hay piles that she's aware she's forgotten to clean out their horse's stall yesterday as she'd promised her father she would.

She hates disappointing him.

She tries so hard to remember her chores but sometimes things just seem to slip from her mind as easily as her blanket slides between her fingers. _It really is like sunshine_ , she muses picking a few frayed stands of the faded yellow. She snuggles further into the quilt her mother made for her, inhaling deeply as she recalls how happy she'd been to receive it as a gift for her eleventh birthday. _Has it really been so long?_ A small frown pulls at her lips.

That was the year her mother died.

Fever, her father had said. She wasn't allowed by her mother's side that night, only barely able to catch a glimpse of her through the parting of the bedroom door whenever her father passed through. She remembers hearing her sister's cries, hungry from the crib in the corner. The way her mother's eyes could barely stay open, focused just out the dark window. Vacant. She'd never felt fear since like the one that gripped her young and frantically beating heart that night. Nor sadness to equal in measure that following morning when her father roused her from sleep outside the bedroom door to tell her Ma was gone.

She misses her still. So much so.

And yet her somber thoughts soon pass when two small arms wrap around her stomach and an equally small body hugs her close. For she can't be sad about that year, not entirely, not when her mother gave her such a wonderful sister.

"Happy birthday, Britt!" Emily exclaims in a hushed whisper into Brittany's ear, identical blue eyes shining bright in the light of the morning sun which streams through their small window. Brittany peeks over at her. Her sister's smile is wide, her two front teeth nothing but white stubs growing down from beneath her gums. A similar, albeit much fuller, grin forms over Brittany's face at the sight.

Brittany shifts in the bed suddenly, chuckling as she pulls her sister close and tickles her sides. Emily squeals, trying to swat away her elder sister's quick hands. She is laughing uproariously all the while, trying so desperately to muster a scowl across her burning face. Brittany relents after a moment, plopping Emily back onto their bed. The springs squeak beneath the light weight in protest as the younger Pierce settles, breaths short and cheeks tinged a bright red.

As her sister calms Brittany leans over, placing a soft kiss to her forehead. Emily giggles, squirming under the attention.

"Thanks, peanut," Brittany tells her with a smile as she hops off the bed and over to their old dresser.

Emily sits up, legs crossed beneath her body as she wrings the blanket between her hands. "Will we go to the lake today?" she asks, averting her eyes as Brittany removes her nightdress and slips into a worn button-up shirt and pair of her father's old militia slacks. As Brittany clips her suspenders in place she looks back over to her sister.

"Of course," she says and once her sister's eyes are upon her own she winks and adds, "I promised didn't I?"

Emily grins, flopping back onto the bed with a kick and some infectious giggles. "I hope the duckies are back. I'm gonna feed them till they're too fat to fly away this winter. Then when they grow up in spring they'll make more duckies and I'll make them fat too and we'll always have duckies in the lake!"

Brittany chuckles, rolling up her sleeves as she steps into her boots. "That's mean Em, how would you feel if I made you all fat and kept you in this room your whole life?"

"If it was from cake I'd be happy forever."

"Maybe we'll have some later," Brittany laughs as she settles her wide brimmed hat atop her head. She peeks outside their window, eyes scanning across the quiet yard. Her smile falters as her gaze settles on the barn. "I have to go clean Apple's stall," she says before turning toward Emily who watches her curiously from the bed. "If you see Pa can you tell him I'll be in for breakfast soon? But don't tell him where I went!"

"You forgot again, didn't you?" Emily asks, a fleeting pass of concern crossing her expression. It is no surprise to her; Brittany was always a bit forgetful. A troublesome kind of forgetful, unfortunately. She knew what the other girls Brittany's age said about her. They weren't very nice things, and she was loath to repeat them. And as if to make matters worse the boys were no better. She didn't understand why they were so mean to her sister. To someone so sweet and smart in other ways they would never understand.

She hated how they teased Brittany. If one good thing came of her sister turning eighteen it was that at least Brittany didn't have to see them anymore. She could stay here, safe on the farm tending to the animals and helping Pa in the fields. Brittany was always happiest outside and even now Emily can see her sister itching to have the sun on her face again.

Brittany sighs, cheeks flushing pink as she averts her gaze to the floor. "Yes, I forgot. But shh!" she turns back to Emily, trying to hide a smile as she brings a finger to her lips. "Keep quiet about it and I'll get us some extra feed for the duckies."

Emily grins, nodding as she settles back into their shared bed. Her sister may be a tad scatterbrained but when it came to what is _truly_ important, she is unfailing.

Brittany dares not pass her fathers bedroom as she exits the house. For good measure she steers clear of the kitchen and for that matter the door as well. A window just along the hall suffices well enough and with a small leap she's outside in the morning air, breathing in the scent of the corn growing just a few yards ahead in their field. She takes one last look back to the house before taking off in a run toward the barn, her braided hair whipping beneath her hat as she speeds across the lawn.

As her legs carry her faster a grin breaks across her face. The sky is clear, air warm. She thanks her mother for such a perfect birthday, daydreaming of the cool lake water she can't wait to jump into with Emily in a few hours time. She swears she can hear the ducks quaking as they splash along the shore, her sister singing some new song-

"Brittany."

And they hadn't invited their father but she accepts his presence in her daydream nonetheless. The more the merrier after all, right?

" _Brittany_."

Brittany stops halfway toward reaching for where she usually leaves the pitchfork. She blinks, eyes focusing as she realizes she's grabbing at nothing but air. A shoe scuffs along the barn floor to her side.

"Pa," Brittany breathes, surprised to find her father standing just outside Apple's stall, a thin line of sweat dotting his strong brow. He looks tired, eyes a duller shade of their usual deep blue. In his hand is clutched her pitchfork, soiled unquestionably with Apple's mess. Brittany only grows more uncomfortable at the sight. She bows her head, hands instinctively burrowing into her trouser pockets. "I'm sorry."

The apology is meek, timid, yet born of the respect she holds so dearly for her father. Hendrick sighs upon seeing his daughter's deflated stance. He's not mad. A bit upset, yes. She's neglected a chore. The third this week. But more so he's worried for his daughter. It seemed to be a habit of Brittany's, always forgetting something. He swears her head is in the clouds more so than upon the ground. _Just like her moeder_ , he thinks with a wistful sigh as he rests the pitchfork against the stall wall and makes his way over to her.

"You think I want you here on your birthday?" he asks gently, plucking the hat from Brittany's head. She looks up at the action, a rush of relief coursing through her upon seeing the smile planted so tenderly on her fathers face. "Consider it part of your gift," he says and places the hat atop his own balding head. "Now, is this a becoming look on me? Shall I wear it to Mister Schuester's dance tomorrow?"

Brittany squints up at her father, mulling the question over. It looks rather silly she thinks, especially as it's a hat made for women and once belonged to her mother. It's too small for his big head, and the pink ribbon about the center too frilly. She grins though, because he looks so happy showing it off for her. "The hat looks good on you. It's like you're a handsome ladyman."

Hendrick quirks a brow at the description before dissolving into chuckles and flicking his daughter's braid back over her shoulder. "The things you say, Britt. I don't know where they come from."

"My mouth," Brittany replies simply, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. This time when she squints up at her father it's as if to inspect him for ailment. "Where else would they come from?"

 _And as always_ , Hendrick muses, _she has a point._ He laughs, giving his daughter back her hat. "As for your other gift," he says, reaching inside his pocket to extract a thin gold chain upon which a small round locket hangs. His hand begins to shake as the memories the simple piece of jewelry brings forth overwhelm him. It's been tucked into his drawer for so long now… far back where no light could ever dare touch it. So that he might not have to see that familiar glint again and be reminded of all he's lost.

"That was Ma's." Brittany whispers, heart stilling as she reaches out to touch the necklace, hesitant. She'd recognize the locket anywhere. It always rested just above her mother's heart, catching the sun along it's polished surface. She looks up at her father, a brilliant smile spreading across her face. "You wish for me to have it?"

Hendrick clears his throat, nodding as he clasps the chain gently behind Brittany's neck. He isn't so good with words, not the way Klara was. There's so much he wishes to tell his daughter, now that she's finally of age. _Be good, find love, hold strong_. But all he manages is a wobbly grin in return as she presses a kiss to his stubbly cheek.

He watches as she touches it fondly, pressing it flat against her heart. "Thank you, Pa."

"Yes, well… that's good," Hendrick says, flustered. "Someday I'll get you a photograph of us that you can put inside."

"That would be lovely," Brittany tells him with that same effortless grin. "But I can pretend for now."

"Happy birthday, Britt." Hendrick chuckles as he lays an arm around her shoulders and walks her back toward the small house. "Come on sunshine," he says to her softly. "I believe tradition decrees today we bake you a cake."

* * *

Hendrick doesn't quite know why he continues to allow Brittany to accompany him to these events. The reproachful stares his peers burn into the sides of his face make his shirt collar feel too tight about his neck. The lingering eyes of the unwed, and more so dastardly of the wed, as they watch her dance cause his temper to spike. Sometimes so dangerously high he wouldn't be surprised if the next eyes focusing on his daughter with such obvious deviant intentions find themselves impaled upon his hayfork. They don't respect him, much less care for Brittany's free-spirited nature. He can hear their hate-filled whispers floating across the room, their resentment… his failure as a father. As a husband.

He tries to tune them out, to bring a casual smile to his lips. But it's strained. His mustache itches.

"I'm glad you could make it, Hendrick," William Schuester says as he comes to stand beside the bristled father. William nods out to the dance floor, a gentle smile on his face as they watch Brittany join in the circle dance. "Both of you."

"You'd be the only one my friend," Hendrick replies with a heavy sigh. "She's so different from all the other girls her age. I worry for her."

"I'd worry more for the talks of war I keep hearing about," William adds, voice low as he turns to his friend. "Have you heard the latest?"

Hendrick shakes his head, "what little I do hear does not settle well in my gut."

"Have you thought what you will do, if it were to come to it?"

"I can't leave my girls," Hendrick says, eyes growing dark, as his gaze stays rooted on the happy face of his daughter ahead. "Emily's too young yet and Brittany–" he chokes on his words, blinking back the beginnings of tears forming at the corners of his eyes. He feels a calm hand come to rest upon his shoulder.

"Let's pray it doesn't come to that then," William says.

"Pa!" Brittany is breathless as she rushes up to her father, cheeks pink and eyes full of laughter as she reaches for his hands. "Come dance with me."

Hendrick's entire demeanor softens at his daughter's request. An easy smile crosses his face as he gives nod to his friend before allowing Brittany to pull him onto the floor.

For tonight he shan't think of what the future holds. Not when Brittany dances so beautifully before him, his little girl all grown now into the woman he always knew she'd become. Graceful, kind, loving… and all her mother. He can't leave her.

He'd promised Klara to always keep them safe.

They depart from the Schuester's a little before midnight, Brittany, naturally, asks for just one more dance. He kisses her damp forehead, promising they will the next time. The walk back home is filled with Brittany's voice as she hums the tunes and twirls along the bank of the dirt road beneath the waning moonlight. He wishes he could keep her like this forever, bottle this moment and live trapped within the glass, ignorant of time and space and all that encompasses life around them. They could go away. Together. His girls and him.

As he wishes them both goodnight upon returning home, feet sore, arms tired and heart full, he knows he'd do anything in his power to make sure his promise to his wife remains unbroken. No matter what, he will keep them safe.

"Welterusten, Pa," Brittany whispers, giving his cheek one last kiss before he departs their room, brow still furrowed in thought as he closes the door softly behind him.

Emily is upon her in an instant, face so close Brittany is sure she can see each individual blond lash along her sister's eyelids.

"You must tell me _everything_ ," Emily demands, excited, eyes wide and expectant. "Did you dance with any of the boys? Were they nice to you? Were they horrid? Did they _smell_?"

Brittany chuckles lightly, pushing away her sister as she settles beneath their quilt. "I danced with Pa, he's the best dancer."

Emily groans, rolling to her back. "It's no fair. I want to go to dances."

"You will soon enough, peanut," Brittany says through a yawn.

"Why was Pa so upset?" Emily asks, eyes darting to the door.

Brittany thinks on her sister's observation. "He looked sad like that when he was talking to Mister Schuester."

Emily pales upon mention of her teacher. "Was it about me?"

"No," Brittany replies, turning to face her sister once more. "The war."

Emily's brow furrows. "But it's over. We weren't even alive then."

"I know," Brittany says quietly, eyes falling shut. "It's why I made him dance with me… I don't like seeing him sad about it… anymore."

Silence envelopes the room for a moment, Brittany's breaths growing deeper.

"Britt?" Emily whispers, prodding her sister gently.

"Hm?" Brittany hums, half awake.

"What if there's another war?"

"Don' worry…" Brittany breathes, quickly drifting back to sleep. "… I'll save… the duckies…"

* * *

**August 1862**

It's unbearable and excruciatingly hot outside. So much so even Brittany wishes she were inside instead. Or better yet neck deep in the lake with a pile of drift snow melting atop her head. Yes, that sounds a far better option. Exceedingly more fun than burning beneath the relentless sun plowing the new corn crops.

A few minutes longer and shirt drenched with sweat, Brittany gives a yank on Apple's reins. The young horse lets out a whinny at the sudden move. Brittany mimics him, nuzzling into his neck as she leads him from the field and toward the barn.

"I know," she tells him, giving his neck an affectionate pat. "Almost to the shade."

A breeze kicks up along the dirt, her skirt billowing against the hot gust. As they pass by the house she can see her sister propped up in their bed, eyes closed as she fans herself. Brittany is worried for her. Emily had fainted a few days prior while they tended to the pigs. And that was well before the heat of this new week began to sink its teeth into the earth. At first Hendrick wasn't too worried, thinking Emily had just been over working herself, as she was wont to do, and needed a bit of bed rest. Four days on now and she was no better than before. Worse off, even. Brittany catches a glimpse of her father, looking ever more troubled, his mouth pulled in a thin line as he places the palm of his hand over Emily's forehead.

Apple gives another neigh, clomping his hoof impatiently along the ground. Brittany wipes the thick collection of sweat over her hairline with the back of her wrist. She coos at Apple as she scratches the horse behind his ear. His temper instantly softens, steps light as Brittany opens his stall door. With Apple fed and his trough filled with cool well water Brittany makes her way toward the house.

She stops to pick a quick daisy from the wild patch Emily has replanted near their kitchen window. Daisies are her sister's favorite and while Brittany knows there isn't much comfort she can offer her, the least she can do is give her a small gift.

Emily's smile as she enters the bedroom holding the flower is all Brittany needs to know she's done well.

She hands the small daisy to Emily, purposely avoiding her heavy gaze. She sits down beside her, twirling Emily's skirt between her fingers once she's settled. She's not quite sure what to say to her.

"Thanks," Emily wheezes, voice shaky and nowhere near its usual strong quality. Hearing her so unlike herself makes the prickles that arose in Brittany's stomach the moment she sat down poke harder. She shifts, uncomfortable, trying to wriggle the painful feeling aside.

A crow's call filters in through the open window, loud and blaring in the silence encompassing the sisters. Brittany's eyes briefly glance up at the window, catching a glimpse of her sisters' eyes reflected back at her upon the panes. _She looks so tiny_ , Brittany thinks before breaking away and staring back down at the quilt.

Emily lets out a sigh. "I'm sorry I couldn't help today," she says quietly, swallowing hard. Her throat tickles and she coughs to clear it, lungs burning hot with every breath after.

Brittany shakes her head quickly, reaching into her pocket for her handkerchief. Her eyebrow knots when she doesn't feel the familiar fabric brush against her searching fingertips.

Emily frowns. "You already gave it to me Britt," she tells her softly, waving the handkerchief clutched in her hand.

"Oh," Brittany says, cheeks blooming red. "I guess I did."

The crow calls again.

Emily giggles.

Brittany's head snaps up, confused as she meets her sister's gaze. Brittany doesn't know why she was so scared to see her, not when she looks so much more herself smiling. _She's growing up so fast_ , she thinks. _Not yet twelve and already a young lady._

"I don't know how you can remember the way to the lake way out there in the woods yet not recall giving me your only hanky just this morning," Emily says with a light chuckle.

"I marked the trees," Brittany explains simply. She nods towards her sister's hand. "Pa would be upset if I marked my way to my handkerchief. I'd ruin all the nice walls."

Emily laughs again, this time stronger. It quickly dissolves to a hacking cough and Brittany scoots closer to Emily's side, a hand slipped behind her hunched back. She strokes the taut muscles she finds until they loosen and Emily relaxes once more against the headboard.

"Thanks," Emily says, breathless, weak once again.

"Are you feeling better today?" Brittany asks, hopeful.

Emily smiles sadly, "maybe tomorrow."

"I hope so. I'm sure your friends at school miss you," Brittany smiles. She was never a very good student herself and still can't read much beyond a few simple words here and there. But Emily is so smart. She loves school. Brittany is so proud of her.

Emily's chin drops as her smile falls. "Pa says Mister Schuester got his draft letter."

Brittany feels a chill roll over her skin at the news. She knows the war has been well underway for the better part of the year now, but they've been lucky to live well above the fighting territories. She knows of a few boys in town who volunteered but no one had been forced to go. It's unsettling. It makes her want to cry for Mister Schuester. _His wife must be so upset_ , she thinks.

"Pa's afraid he'll get one soon," Emily adds softer yet.

Brittany shakes her head quickly, eyes focused so intently upon her sisters that Emily can feel Brittany's fear consuming her as well. She bites back the terrible feeling threatening to devour her heart. Brittany has every reason to be terrified. They both do. But she knows if she were to show it, it would only make Brittany feel that much worse.

She also cannot lie to her sister.

Not about something so important.

"Brittany," Emily begins, taking a hold of her sisters trembling hand. "You know what this means," she tells her, voice low as her eyes bore keenly into the ones before her. "He has to go."

"No!" Brittany exclaims as she stands sharply from the bed. The prickles in her stomach increase tenfold, feeling as though they will stab their way straight through her gut. She can't shake out her nerves, can't shake the way her vision seems to be narrowing. "He _can't_ ," she pleads. "He _promised_."

"He's trying to get the money. He needs three hundred," Emily explains before a deep cough rips through her throat. Brittany helps her to recline, a new wave of concern flooding her at Emily's pale pallor.

"Three hundred dollars Em," Brittany squeaks out. "We've never had that kind of money."

"Then I guess we're going into hiding."

"Where?" Brittany's eyes dart frantically between her sisters own. "You're ill and need doctor Nelson's help. We can't leave unless you're better!"

"If he has to go then you'll have to take care of me," Emily tells her, adding with a smile, "but don't worry, I'll tell you what to do."

"What if you get worse?" Brittany asks, tears pooling thickly in her eyes. "I can't… I don't know _how_..."

"It's easy," Emily squeezes her hand. "Think of me like Apple."

Brittany's eyes widen. "I forget to take care of him!"

"Brittany," Emily says softly, forcing her sister to look at her once more. "I'll be better soon. You'll see. _We'll_ be all right."

Brittany nods, taking a deep breath as she repeats those four words in her head. _We'll be all right_ , she thinks. _We'll be all right._

But Emily does not get better soon. Her condition only grows worse as the month drags on, so much to the point that Brittany must sleep in her fathers bed whilst he sets up his own along the floor.

The letter arrives shortly after.

Hendrick disappears for a long while that night and when he returns, clothes rumpled and eyes red, Brittany envelops him in a hug and tells him what Emily once told her.

_We'll be all right._

But she knows it's a lie, even before it leaves her mouth.

They can't be all right. Not if he leaves.

Not with Emily so sick she can barely lift a cup to her mouth.

It's when seeing her father tending so effortlessly to Emily that she realizes there is only one solution to their problem. Late that night, long after her father's frets finally wear him down and sleep overtakes his fatigued body, Brittany slips from the bed. She dresses quickly, sure that if she were to pause long enough she'd throw all her courage out the window and crawl back under the warmth her father's covers provide. But she reminds herself she is doing this for him, so that Emily can have the best beside her. The one who is sure not to fail her… not to forget.

So _they_ can be all right in the end.

With a heavy heart and tears burning in her eyes she unclasps her mother's locket from around her neck, laying the necklace beside her father's sleeping form.

"Forgive me," she whispers before standing tall once more and tucking his draft letter deep within the breast pocket of his old militia coat buttoned neatly up her torso.

Come that morning the 106th Ohio Infantry has enlisted Bret Pierce as their dispatch carrier.


	2. Far From Home

**Mackville, Kentucky. October 1st, 1862**

It's too early in fall to see so many splashes of yellow amidst the green leaves. The air isn't yet cool; the last warm remnants of summer still cloud the breeze. Brittany finds it strange. It's almost as if the seasons have declared war upon themselves as well. The clashing, even within nature itself, is inescapable. She wonders if autumn has started in Lima too. If Emily is well enough to collect leaves for their mantle…

She closes her eyes for just a moment, willing the thoughts of her sister to pass. Home is so far away now. Thinking of all she's left behind just rips open wider the hole already entrenched in her heart. It's already so deep, she thinks, pressing her hand against her chest. She's afraid of the emptiness that sprouts inside her. The loneliness. It's unbearable at times. Like nothing she's every felt…not even the cold prickle of frost that used to bite at her back on long winter mornings spent tending to the cows can compare. Because at least then her father would always bring her a scarf and extra thick mittens.

He's not here now. Emily isn't beside her.

She's lost count of the nights spent curled in her tent, alone, willing the tears not to fall. She must cry even in her dreams, she thinks. Because she always wakes to a damp pillow and that same unwelcome emptiness in her heart.

But then she reminds herself why she's here.

"Emily is getting better," she repeats to herself. "They're all right and you have to be all right too."

Believing so brings her spirits up.

Her eyes scan the road a few yards ahead from where she rides. Except for a few birds overheard, there's not a single soul in sight. She imagines the flock must be heading south for the coming winter and wishes them well on their travels. Soon the ducks will be joining them. She tries not thinking more of them, wistful already for thoughts of home.

Brittany relaxes more in the saddle, smiling even as the horse lets out soft whinny when the wind kicks up and a few wayward autumn leaves brush over his nose. His pace is brisk along the embankment; the leaves soon forgotten to the grass behind them. Brittany wishes she'd picked a few earlier when they stopped for rest. They'd look nice in her tent. Home may be far but it could feel a bit closer.

 _I can't_ , she sighs to herself. _Bret wouldn't do that_. _Boys don't decorate._

The leaves will have to remain where they are.

She brushes off the few stuck to her horse's mane. Out of sight, out of mind. The supply bags full of mail tied to Piedmont's saddle thump against his hind with every hurried step forward he takes. It drums a calm rhythm, distracting from thoughts of home and the camp she's riding back toward. She makes up a song to the beat, something silly about horses with socks and skies dotted with patches of pink clouds.

It makes her daydream of summer days spent in the fields, gently coaxing Apple along.

She misses him.

Piedmont just isn't the same.

"Not that I don't like you or anything," she tells him, ruffling his brown mane. "You're a good horse too."

She'll have to knit him some socks just like she made Apple once. She hopes Piedmont doesn't eat his too.

An itch prickles on the back of her neck.

She scratches just above her shoulder, still so unused to her hair being tucked – concealed more like it – snuggly beneath a cap. She pulls gently back on the reins, slowing Piedmont's gait as her eyes skim the nearby trees for the bark she'd etched a sun upon earlier on her journey toward Harrodsburg. It was a few hours' trip from the camp into town, something she'd usually never undertake. But the telegraph lines hadn't been laid out to Mackville yet and the only way Colonel Wright could get word sent on was through courier.

As for the bags of mail she'd acquired, well, Brittany has a few choice words for the man responsible with unloading this burden upon her poor horse. She detests that the express carrier in Harrodsburg was such a lazy fat tub of a man. He'd practically shoved them onto her the moment she rode into town and took off ( _surprisingly fast for such a big man_ , she thinks) without so much as a word in explanation. _Like a human version of Tubbington with even less manners._ Though to Tubbington's credit, at least he always made up for his many grievous faults. Even if most of the time his apology consisted of merely being adorable.

 _Stop it_ , Brittany warns herself, her heart once more filling with sorrow. Piedmont snorts loudly, shaking Brittany from her troubled thoughts.

"I'm sorry about this Piedy," she whispers, stroking the horse's mane. He belongs to Corporal Hummel– _no_ , she reminds herself, he's asked her to simply call him Burt and if she should forget that than just simply Mister Hummel will do. He's a blacksmith who enlisted in place of his son. Brittany trusted him implicitly the day he told her that bit of information. Though she dare not reveal to him how similar their stories were. He always tells her how much she reminds him of his son, Kurt, back home in Columbus. Brittany once glimpsed at a picture of Kurt. Burt kept it tucked in his lapels most days but for some reason it was lying atop his worktable when she'd come in looking for him. It was a newer photograph; the edges still crisp and finish unscratched. She didn't think she looked anything like the immaculately dressed boyish fellow that beamed back at her. But she took it as a compliment nonetheless.

She prides herself on acting as much like a man as she can.

And even though she has a feeling it doesn't matter much to Burt she maintains her character anyway.

Bret is a quiet boy from Lima. He likes spending his time with the cavalry's horses as opposed to drinking beside the fires. He pretends to shave outside his tent like the other men do despite never having grown a hair along his chin in his life. He loves to watch, always from a far, as the camp musicians bolster spirits with a song. His feet itch to join the others, body aching for the fun of a dance. But he always keeps himself away. It will only give the other men more reason to mock him later. They already think him strange enough. God knows they've come up with enough names to shout his way. It's why he never, under any circumstances, lets his gaze linger too long upon another's. Bret is too afraid they will see through his rouse and punish _her_ for disobeying military law.

Brittany doesn't like to think about what that can entail. Instead she squares her shoulders, sits taller upon her saddle and tells herself she needs to stay focused. She gets ten dollars a month for being part of this infantry and every penny must be sent home to help Emily be well again.

Her family needs this money.

And her father needs to remain by her sister's side.

The mid-afternoon sun hangs low in the sky by the time she makes it back to camp. Burt greets her with a wide grin once she's inside the boundaries. _Of course he was waiting for me_ , she thinks, smiling back as well. Burt always makes sure to be there upon her arrival. He's the one thing keeping the emptiness from overwhelming her. Brittany dismounts, giving Piedmont a pat on his neck as she takes his reins loosely in her hands and leads the horse back to his master.

"Safe and sound, as always," Burt says to her with a chuckle. She smiles in return as he takes the reins and gives her a solid thump along her back. Brittany stumbles a bit, but recovers effortlessly, returning the gesture and silently praising Bret for his effort. It was a good, manly pat.

"With the mail," Brittany tells him, her voice purposely lowered a few octaves into Bret's usual tone. She'd practiced the perfect pitch, not too gruff, not too deep. Something unnoticeable but natural. A voice no one would think twice about.

Bret Pierce has to be forgettable.

"The mail?" Burt quirks an eyebrow at her in question and Brittany merely keeps her head bowed, shrugging in response. She doesn't like speaking unless it is necessary and thankfully Burt doesn't seem to mind her quieted tongue. It is easy to get along with him. He is kind, helpful and so much reminds her of her own father. Though Burt can't much get around as well as him, what with his knee in such poor condition from a welding accident back in his hometown. Even with his injury he is an asset to the infantry nonetheless. Mending weapons, fabricating horseshoes, and recently undertaking the correspondence deliveries.

Brittany walks alongside him, careful to mind her steps. Burt's limp caught her off guard on a few occasions but she's become accustomed to his way of walking now. She enjoys his company. He doesn't ask her too many questions.

"Bret, when was the last time you washed?"

Except maybe questions like that.

Brittany sighs, scratching at her neck again. She's starting to think perhaps the itchiness of her skin isn't so much from her hair but the dirt that may as well have collected back there. She shrugs in answer, uncertain. It's been a while. She also doesn't quite like thinking too much on the reason why.

"You might want to. You smell something fierce boy," Burt chuckles and the sound warms Brittany's heart. She knows he's speaking in good humor, especially when his hand comes to rest gently on her shoulder.

"Ah, there you are _eunuch_ ," a young man calls out from a few paces to their right.

Brittany winces at the familiar voice.

Burt stops walking altogether. His hand squeezes Brittany's shoulder, holding her in place beside him. He lets out deep, throaty rumble, a sound so defensive that it makes Brittany nervous. She glances up at him, worried for the confrontation soon to transpire. Burt's never been privy to the verbal abuse she endures day after day. But he's not ignorant of it either. Gossip after all, isn't just a sport for bored women. As it turns out it is also the preferred sport for bored men. And Burt will be damned if he stands idly by as these boys badger his charge. Especially since they have the audacity, and idiocy, to do so in front of him.

He turns toward the group of men, a snarl fixed upon his lips as their malicious laughter rings sharply in his ears.

He leans toward Brittany, eyes focused upon the advancing group as he gives her shoulder another reassuring squeeze. "Don't mind them," he tells her softly. Then he straightens, shoulders squared and eyes set in a stern glare as they finally stop a few paces in front of them. Brittany keeps her own gaze focused upon Burt's boots, the tip of her cap obscuring her eyes from sight.

She never minds them. Half the time she doesn't even know what they mean to say. But she knows, just by their cruel tone, that whatever it is can't be very good. Eunuch is their new favorite word. It confuses Brittany.

Eunuch…

She is either unique, or half a unicorn.

Neither sounds bad to her and she quite likes fables. Unicorns especially.

"What do you fellows want?" Burt snaps.

"Sir," the taller of the bunch, a boy Brittany knows as Scott Cooper, nods respectively to Burt. His blue eyes flicker toward Brittany, a smug expression crossing his features. "I'm afraid we need the whelp."

Burt steps forward, pleased as the private before him takes a step back in reaction. "And I'm afraid you've misplaced your conduct," he says, eyeing the boy before him and the other three flanking his sides. "He is to be addressed as Private Pierce."

" _Private Pierce_ is needed," Cooper repeats, though it is obvious that it's a strain for him to do so.

"For? Under whose orders?" Burt asks, arms crossed over his chest.

Cooper bristles at the questions, having not expected to be addressed so callously. Corporal Hummel is his superior though, and despite wishing he could say as he pleases to the old cripple he keeps his mouth smartly shut. His eyes flicker toward Brittany, a glint of bitterness held in his gaze. He focuses back upon Burt and motions out toward the field atop the nearby hill. "The horses need to be taken to pasture. It's _Private Pierce's_ duty per Captain Hartman's orders."

"You've delivered your message," Burt says to them as they continue to stand, unmoving. " _Leave_."

With a nod from Cooper he and the boys depart. Brittany shifts on her feet, head still bowed as Burt sighs beside her.

"You know I'm always telling my boy not to let simpletons like that bother him so," Burt says. "It'd serve you well to live by those words too."

"I will," Brittany tells him, allowing a small smile to show. "Thank you."

Burt ruffles the cap on her head, chuckling when Brittany seems to brighten considerably. "Take care kid, all right?"

Brittany nods wishing she could give Burt the hug she's wanted to for a month now. But she holds back, reminding herself, _Bret doesn't like hugs_. Instead she smiles wider and scratches Piedmont's neck before she takes off toward the cavalry's station to carry out her afternoon chore.

* * *

The grass is tall in the pasture, obscuring Brittany from sight where she sits upon the ground. She watches the clouds pass lazily overhead, their shapes morphing in the light breeze. She thinks the mass of fluffy white to her left resembles a leggy rabbit… or maybe a squat fawn. She's not too sure. It makes her smile nonetheless as her fingers work to braid a few strands of grass. The sounds of the camp are far below her down the hill, muffled by the distance. Yet she can clearly see the beginnings of tonight's fires being started, their smoke billowing to mix with the rabbit-deer hybrid above.

A horse shakes his head to her side, his snort loud and the warm breath he exhales tickles her cheek.

"Hungry?" she asks him, holding out her braid of grass. He nibbles at the offering before pulling it from her grasp and chewing it eagerly. Brittany sighs watching him eat. _They need more. Hay and some oats would do well_ , she thinks, eyes scanning over the top of the grass to where the other ten horses she's brought out are grazing. Burt told her the supply train was held up somewhere North. The lines were clogged with enough orders to last years. The companies operating the engines have been unable to keep up since the war began.

The rations for the horses will have to wait. Grass will do for now.

Brittany hopes when the trains do arrive they are filled to the brim with oats, tons of hay and lots of corn. At the rate the infantry's horses feed they'll have eaten their way to Harrodsburg by next week's end.

Brittany lies back in the grass, breathing out deeply. While Bret doesn't much mind war, Brittany hates it. Especially when such beautiful animals can't be cared for properly.

The horse she fed her braid to suddenly snaps his head up, ears perked toward the far corner of the pasture near the woods. Brittany quickly scrambles to her feet, collecting the length of wrangling rope along the ground as she does. She sees nothing near the edge of the trees, but she knows something is amiss. All the horses are focused upon the wooded area ahead, anxious and still.

A gunshot rings out. Shouts of men soon follow.

The horses scatter, taking off in full runs across the pasture.

"No!" Brittany yells, giving chase to the scared animals. She can't believe what's happening. _Who are those men? Are they Southerners? Have they found their camp?_ A sweat is quick to break across her forehead, more from the thought of imminent battle than the exertion of her run. As she urges herself faster, rope held tightly in her hands, she realizes she doesn't hear the loud sounds of fighting she assumed would be coming from the camp down the hill. With skilled ease she manages to rope one of the horses that dashes past her. The great mare cries out, rearing back suddenly and yanking Brittany off her feet.

She tumbles to the ground, landing hard on her shoulder. A loud pop resonates from her bone and Brittany releases the rope as she bites back the scream threatening to tear through her throat. Her shoulder explodes with a fresh wave of pain, her back arching in protest against the frayed nerves.

The ground beneath her begins to shake, her vision dotted with an array of colors as she tries to stand to wobbly legs. The pain in her arm is unbearable. Tears sting at her eyes. The rumble of horse hooves grows louder. Another gunshot is fired from behind. The horses divert in their path.

Brittany barely has time to think as they sprint straight toward her, their dark eyes wide and panicked.

The last she recalls before being kicked to the ground and losing conscious thought is that someone, somewhere in the pasture is laughing at her. And they sound a hell of a lot like Scott Cooper.

* * *

"Boy, if you squirm anymore I'll be forced to write you off as the worm you clearly fancy yourself to be, whereby you'll be tossed to the river as fish bait lest you waste my time any further!" Dr. Lopez exclaims, seething down at his patient. "And if that wasn't clear enough; _hold still you little fuck before I render you still myself_!"

The young soldier grows slack upon the command, reclining deep into his cot. Pierced straight through his foot is a tent stake, the metal long since rusted and flaking bits of its old skin upon the boy's, _now useless_ , Santana notes, right foot.

Dr. Lopez's calm façade is back again as he taps at the boy's unresponsive toes with the blunt end of his saw. "This has to go."

"No! _Please_!" the frantic boy begs, green eyes wide with terror, his face growing impossibly pale. "You can save it, right? It's not…it's—"

"It's in danger of becoming gangrenous," Dr. Lopez explains, impatient. He pushes Santana aside as he squats beside the boy and motions with the saw toward the fresh wound. "Better to chop it off now before your whole leg has to go with it later."

The boy gulps. "M-my _whole_ leg?"

Dr. Lopez resists the urge to roll his eyes, instead grunting, as he says, "No, stupid boy, just your _foot._ So stay still. We've no chloroform for you. Santana, hand him the belt."

Santana is quick to retrieve the belt inside her apron as she squats opposite her father beside the trembling soldier. He hasn't even been enlisted a week and already he is losing a limb. She tries to muster a look of sympathy to her face, but she finds it hard to dredge up any ounce of sympathy for someone stupid enough to stake himself. That thing has to be at least a foot long; he _had_ to have seen it.

"Open your mouth," she instructs. His eyes lock upon hers, pleading and full of unshed tears. She looks away before the chill forming over her spine can take hold. He obeys and Santana slips the piece of leather between his teeth. She doesn't have to explain what it is for. The boy instinctively bites down upon it, eyes squeezed tightly shut, anticipating with shallow breaths what is sure to happen next. She's about to stand when his hand finds hers, fingers shaking uncontrollably as he grips desperately onto her. She wishes she could offer him the comfort of sleep, but with the supplies still on their way she has nothing but a hand to provide.

She looks back over to her father after a moment, wondering why the sound of skin being torn to shreds isn't meeting her ears. He's staring at her, saw poised just over the boy's ankle with a look of contempt upon his face. "Why are you still sitting there?" he demands. "Fetch me a bucket."

 _Damn_ , Santana curses to herself. She'd brought it over, of course, yet with the soldier clinging to her like some whimpering child she's forgotten to slide it into place below his foot. She wretches her hand free from his iron like grip, ignoring his protests and pleas with her to remain. The bucket is in place a moment later, her father not bothering to warn the boy before he digs the saw deep into his flesh.

The amputation is completed quickly, and for once without quite so much a mess. Santana is thankful for this, as well as the fact the boy passed out midway through. His screams, even muffled as they were with the leather belt, were still jarring. She hopes that shipment of chloroform arrives soon. If anything so that in the coming months of battle her sanity can remain somewhat intact. She's not deluded herself about war. She knows she will see gruesome, terrible things far beyond her already vivid imaginings. She's both eager and dreading them.

At the moment, she's sick of war. A month of trailing after her father mending accidents and dealing with the illness brought on by the more promiscuous has left her quite repulsed by humanity. Stupid men, in particular. For some reason war seems to bring those types out in large droves.

Her gaze settles on the face of the unconscious soldier her father has just operated on. He must have been drafted. Volunteers aren't this careless. Regardless she takes special care to tend to his ankle, always prideful in her work no matter whom the patient is. Once she's finished with the soldier she motions for a few nurse aides to see to it the mess upon the floor is taken care of. They give her kind smiles as they come over and quickly gather supplies for their work. Santana has a feeling their smiles are just masks with which to hide their contempt. She leaves before they're even within distance to address her.

Santana catches up with her father beside his next patient. She recognizes the man. He's come in complaining of rashes a few times already and it is obvious now that he's developed a rather serious case of syphilis, which in Santana's opinion, should have been obvious given his rather sordid reputation within the camp. Her father would hear none of her conjectures though as it wasn't a secret he'd been partaking in much the same nightly trysts with the camp harlots. Invisible is what he fancied himself. ' _Your mother will hear none of this_ ,' he'd hiss at her whenever he'd return to their tent reeking of sex and lead powder.

She didn't much care and only fleetingly did she ever hope he kept himself safe.

Unlike the poor bastard they are tending. For some time now the patient's rashes had been easy enough to quell. But now his skin has finally exploded in a series of painful lesions across his hands and crotch. Before Dr. Lopez reaches to remove the sheet over the patient's groin he turns to Santana. Weary and with smidges of blood still doting his forehead from the amputation he tells her, "Go check upon the less critical. This isn't the place for a woman."

Santana's temper flares at the dismissal. "How else am I to learn if I am not present?"

Dr. Lopez's eyes narrow furiously into her own. "Medicine is not a practice for _women_. You are here as a _nurse_ aide. That is _all_."

Santana stands her ground for a moment, his words sinking deep beneath her skin. They make her wish to stay, to show him otherwise. But she knows he holds the power to discharge her. And worse yet, send her home. With a terse nod she takes leave of her father and heads toward the ward at the back end of the tent. She hates the less critical patients. The ones who come in complaining of head-pains and superficial cuts upon their hands. In other words, those who are known as giant pansies in her mind. It is an insult to be sent away. And even more so to be sent to this ward. She slaps away the tent flap, storming into that small room with a challenging scowl already planted on her face.

A few of the boys hide their injuries. Of what Santana can see two conceal paper-cuts, one a bruised calf, and the other scampers off before she can even get a glimpse. At the sight of her scowl deepening the rest quickly shuffle from the tent.

Santana is more than pleased by their speedy exits. She learned quickly some men were willing to pass off any injury as serious enough to have them sent home. It was ridiculous. _As if Wright cares whether you've sprained your pinky finger,_ she thinks. Unless you were near death, or limbless like their recent patient, you were classified as fit for battle. Patch 'em up or send 'em back in a box. It was simple as that.

"Good afternoon, _beautiful_ ," a particularly familiar and arrogant voice calls from her side.

Santana groans, rolling her eyes as she comes face to face with one of her more _repetitive_ patients. Private Noah Puckerman. He's sporting a rather fresh black eye below his cocked brow and a cut upon his smirking lips. He beckons her closer and Santana reluctantly moves toward him.

"What's wrong with you now, Puckerman?" she spits, angry and frustrated to be seeing him in here again. It seems he was intent upon winning her favor, and doing so in all the wrong manners.

"Can't you tell?" he husks.

A bad taste develops over Santana's tongue at the sound. "I see you've lost yet another fight, if that's what you mean to say."

Puckerman places a hand over his heart, feigning hurt at her words. "A fight for your honor."

This time when Santana's eyes take a roll they stay focused upon the tent ceiling. "You're fine," she snaps before meeting his arrogant gaze once more. "Get out of my tent."

"But my swollen bits," Puckerman concedes, smirk still firmly planted on his mouth. "I think you need to check, just to be sure."

"So help me _god_ if you say it's below your belt again."

"Miss Santana! I am a _gentleman_ ," Puckerman says with over exaggerated offense. "Therefore, I believe a kiss will suffice in lieu of an apology."

Santana unsheathes a particularly nasty looking scalpel from within her apron pocket. "Your dick will suffice in lieu of payment for wasting my time if you don't leave my tent _right this second_."

"All right, all right!" Puckerman says, holding his hands skyward in defense. "I'm leaving. Don't pull out the saw just yet."

"I won't need more than _this_ ," she threatens, waving the small operating knife in her hand.

Puckerman slips down from his seat on the stool, hands still held above his head. "I'm going, I swear, see?" he points toward the tent entrance, steps light as he retreats. "Walking right out your door."

Santana folds her arms across her chest, eyes set in an unyielding glare as Puckerman collects his things and with a grin blows her a kiss before rushing out of the tent. She lets out a loud groan as the flap settles back into place, her irritability quickly lowering with him gone but leaving her still very much on edge. She turns to the only remaining patient, a timid looking boy clutching his shoulder where he sits upon the lone examination table. His legs kick in a lazy rhythm as they hang over the edge, half his face obscured beneath a worn cap. Santana can see him worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. Her eyes rake over his uniform. The badge over his lapel claims him as the lowliest of the infantry. A simple courier. _An errand boy_. And yet most important of all he'd obviously never been in the medical tent before, or at least not while she was on shift.

The soldiers knew better than to waste her time.

Both Lopez's have notoriously short tempers.

Time to show him just exactly how short it is.

She stalks up to the boy, hoping to intimidate him into leaving so she can return to the _real_ work. She makes it three steps only to stumble back a few paces upon being bombarded by the smell pouring off the lad in solid waves. "Dear fucking god!" Santana shouts as she stares incredulously over at the soldier. "When was the last time your body was acquainted with soap?"

He looks up. "Huh?"

"Soap. A bath," Santana says, approaching the soldier once more and this time mindful not to breathe too deeply. "When was the last time you _bathed_ yourself? You smell horrid."

"Oh," he blushes, eyes downcast. "I don't remember the last time. It's been a while. I apologize for being so stinky."

"When you leave here you need to do something about _this_ ," she says, motioning up and down his body.

"Do you know where there's a tub?" he asks.

Santana's brow quirks at the question. Perhaps he is a new recruit? She can't very much see his face; the boy seems to be purposely avoiding looking directly at her for too long. "The men wash in the troughs out back. Weren't you shown to them when your Captain brought you here?"

He leans toward Santana, voice barely above a whisper as he tells her, "I can't wash there. The men are all naked."

Santana can do nothing but blink for a moment. When she finds her voice she says dryly, "That _is_ the point. So you'll have to get over this issue of yours seeing as it's either bathe there or continue masquerading, quite adequately, as a human manure pile. Unless this is some genius ploy on your part, though I highly doubt it, to repel any confederates you may come across on your travels. Though, like I mentioned, I highly doubt your ability to enact such a complex scheme. Not to mention that you reek so highly to heaven that the only people you are foiling are your own allies. So now," Santana says, tilting her head as she examines the boy before her with a scornful and critical eye. "Why are you in my tent, shit pile?"

The boy shifts uncomfortably, still clutching his shoulder as he nods down the piece of paper on the table beside him. "I don't know but Mister Hummel told me to give you this."

Santana plucks the sheet from the table, quickly reading over the letter.

_Doctor Lopez,_

_Pvt. Bret Pierce has suffered a dislocated shoulder and some other injuries I am not equipped to assess. I've popped the joint back into place but am afraid there may be internal damage and beseech your expertise further. Please take care of him. He's a good boy._

_Many thanks,_

_Cpl. Burt Hummel_

_Interesting_ , she thinks as she folds up the note and stuffs it into her apron. _And also vague_. But before she can even ask one question to evaluate this case further Brittany speaks first.

"Where do you bathe?" she asks. Something about the doctor makes her nervous; it's obvious Santana's not the kindest soul around. But something also makes Brittany want to look up, to be brave and look at the woman who she's been told will help her stop hurting so much. Because if there's one thing she is for sure of, it's that her shoulder aches something fierce and the rest of her feels no better. Yet even her pain seems mild compared to the doctor's reaction over her smell. That needs to be dealt with first. She doesn't want to make… _San…Sant-anna, was it? Maybe her parents really liked Christmas_ , she thinks. She doesn't want to make Santana dislike her anymore than she probably already does.

The question catches Santana off guard. She looks over at Brittany, startled to find curious blue eyes staring openly back her. It's unsettling. No one has ever stared at her with such obvious esteem.

She shakes the warm feeling creeping into her aside, snapping back instead, "Where I bathe is not your concern."

"But you must wash separate of the men," Brittany continues. "And you smell awful nice."

"I uh," Santana stammers, flustered over the sudden heat settling in her cheeks. Her eyes narrow in suspicion at the soldier before her as she answers gruffly, "I share a private trough with my father in our quarters."

Brittany's entire face seems to light up her words. Santana takes a step back at the enthusiasm even as Brittany asks, hopeful, "Could I bathe there?"

"No!" Santana exclaims, waving the question off with a flick of her wrist. "It's not for soldiers' use! Why do you have such an aversion to bathing with the others? You're all the same! Are you truly so insecure?"

Brittany lets her chin fall, eyes once more focused upon her feet. "No, I just _can't_ let anyone see me. It's very important."

Santana rolls her eyes. _Another pansy_. "Why ever not?"

"I just _can't_ ," Brittany says, voice still low but now tinged with immediacy. "So may I please bathe in your quarters?"

"The answer is still no," Santana tells her evenly as she moves to stand just beside the soldier, careful to breathe through her mouth. Her nose scrunches in disgust anyway. She's sure she can taste the horrid smell upon her tongue. "And now that you've gone and wasted valuable time sit up, don't breathe upon me, and try not to scream too much."

Brittany isn't prepared for what happens next but she follows Santana's orders explicitly. Her spine grows rigid and straight, lungs filled to capacity with a giant breath of air. All before Santana grabs hold of her shoulder and gives a gentle tug on the painful joint. Brittany purses her lips and bites down hard on her tongue in response.

"Sorry," Santana mutters as she eases the arm around. And with empathy she's surprised to even muster, asks, "it hurts, doesn't it?"

Brittany nods quickly, breath still held, face turning red. Santana doesn't bother looking up from where she inspects the rotation of Brittany's shoulder. She thinks this Hummel fellow may know a thing or two about injuries; he's obviously set it back in place properly.

Santana looks back up to Brittany, about to explain what she's just done but her eyes grow wide upon seeing the soldier obviously suffering from acute oxygen deprivation. "For goodness sake Private! Breathe!"

Brittany exhales what little air retains in her lungs, quick to gulp as much oxygen back in as she can afterward. She looks back up at Santana, breathless and upset. "You said not to!"

"I didn't mean it _literally_!" Santana exclaims. "Dios mio! Que stupido!"

Brittany's brow crinkles, eyes darkening as she tells her, "I'm not stupidio… I'm not stupid."

Santana scoffs. "Could have fooled me."

Brittany lets out a sigh; her usually immaculate posture slumping as she scuffs her boot along the table leg. "I know I'm not the sharpest tool under the bed."

"Don't you mean shed?"

Brittany gazes up at Santana, confused. "Why would I say shed? Who keeps their tools there? It's cold."

"I just mean…" Santana begins to say but stops as Brittany holds her gaze. Something about the soldier seems off to her, different than the others. And she swears Pierce's tone changed just then, the boy's usual timbre several octaves off. Higher. She shakes her head, thinking the stress of the day has finally started to take its toll on her mental facilities. _And the smell isn't helping_ , she notes. "Never-mind," she says. "Turn this way, please."

Brittany scoots along the table, sitting so that her side fully faces Santana, her legs now crossed in front of her upon the table. "I'm sorry you have to smell me," Brittany says quietly as Santana inspects a rather large bruise forming just along her temple. Warm fingers brush against the broken skin and Brittany lets out a hum at the soft touch. It hardly hurts anymore.

Santana can't help but chuckle at the apology. "Sadly, even despite your lack of hygiene, you're not the worst smelling patient I've attended to."

When Santana tries to remove her cap Brittany yelps, tugging back down upon the brim. "Can I keep it on? My head is cold."

Santana adds this to the growing list of concerns she's shortly acquired over the strange boy. She shrugs, "Fine by me, though if you're hiding a wound up there I'll never be able to help you."

"My head doesn't hurt, just here," Brittany tells her, pointing to her shoulder. In fact the rest of her seems to be doing much better since the doctor started to check on her. _Like magic_ , Brittany thinks with a smile. _Like Santeclaus._

"Well, that's good news then." Santana says, choosing to ignore the blissful grin on the boy's face. _God, is he ever strange_ , she thinks. Lanky, confused, and she also can't help but notice the lack of stubble on his jaw. "How old are you Private?"

"Twenty-two."

Santana's eyebrows rise along her forehead.

Brittany blushes under the stare she knows Santana is boring into the side of her face. "I have really light hair."

"Naturally," Santana replies, skeptical as she taps on Brittany's knees, instructing Bret to face her once more.

Brittany does so and grins. "I like you better than the other Doctor."

This time it's Santana that's blushing. "Yes, well..."

"And your eyes aren't scary like his. They're really pretty."

Blushes exceedingly so. Her whole face feels as though it's been lit ablaze. "You're a very… _odd_ fellow, Private Pierce."

Brittany shrugs, wincing at the pain that blooms from her shoulder at the move. "I've been called a lot of strange names since I've been here," she explains simply. A small smile forms on her lips as she tells Santana, "I have a favorite though. Just a few days ago some of the boys began to call me a unicorn."

Santana's nose scrunches. "A unicorn?"

Brittany stares into the empty space over Santana's shoulder. "...I think so," she says, trying to focus upon the memory from just earlier this afternoon. It's just out of reach though, her grasp not quite able to take hold. She sighs. "I really can't remember."

"I think he called you a eunuch," Santana tells her. She's heard it mentioned a few times in passing, though never quite sure who it was directed toward. _Definitely found him_ , she thinks now.

Brittany laughs. "It's _unicorn._ Aren't doctors supposed to be smart?" she asks with a smirk.

"I—!" Santana begins to refute but is so secretly thrilled hearing that title again that she can't quite articulate anything else at the moment. She's had enough of this back and forth though. And she's certainly grown tired of being so tongue-tied, especially around such a poor excuse for a soldier, let alone a man. Her eyes narrow as her entire demeanor shifts in the blink of an eye. Brittany's smile falls as Santana glares up at her. "Look, this is how this is going to go. I am going to examine you for further injury, fix whatever is wrong, and then I'll have you on your way so you can go smell up someone else's tent. If you haven't noticed people are dying and in need of _actual_ medical care. Is that clear, Private?"

"Yes, doctor," Brittany answers, head bowed.

Santana feels her stomach flutter again at the honorific but smoothers it with a growl as she asks, "How'd this happen?"

"Some of the fellows spooked the horses I was taking to feed in the pasture," Brittany explains, voice once more low and timid. "I got knocked down and my shoulder broke but Mister Hummel fixed it up and it feels sore but all right. I don't know why he brought me here..."

"Probably because you're acting like you're concussed," Santana offers, sarcastically yet also suspecting it to be the truth.

Brittany frowns. "I'm not confused."

Santana stares at her, dumfounded. "Well," she begins to say. "This explains… a lot, actually. Do you feel lightheaded?"

"A bit, but only when you get really close like now. Is that normal?" Brittany asks. She thinks it's because the doctor smells so nice. No one she's ever met has smelled quite so wonderful. She can't even begin to explain it. _Like water lilies and fresh coffee and her favorite book of stories_. It makes her head float and her gut feel as though it's filled with bubbles. She thinks she may be nauseous but so far hasn't felt like retching. It confuses her. Maybe she is contusioned like Santana said.

"I, uh…" Santana once again finds herself unable to speak. If Puckerman were to sprout such utter nonsense to her she would have had him writhing in pain by now. But the way Private Pierce said it… as if it were a mere truth, something felt and not to be turned to pandering flattery... it makes Santana think more and more that the poor boy is entirely mad. She clears her head and reaches forward, tugging up on the soldier's shirt before Brittany can even voice her protest.

With a gasp Brittany's hands are quick to still Santana's, clasping firmly over the shorter woman's fingers halting them before they can remove the shirt any further up her torso. Again Santana is met with skin free of hair, of even the slightest inclination that the boy before her has reached manhood, let alone that he's anywhere near twenty-two. Bret is thin; thin in a way that reminds her of someone more woman than man. _Impossible_ , she thinks. Yet his reaction…

"You're a bit slender for your age." Santana says. She looks up, meeting Brittany's fretful gaze. Full cheeks, soft brow… _Curious_ , Santana thinks. Instead of voicing her opinion she asks, "Have you been getting your rations?"

"I've always looked like this and yes, I have." Brittany replies, daring her voice lower.

 _Ah, that'll do it_ , Santana muses. "And when were you going to tell me you're actually a woman?"

Brittany's eyes grow impossibly wide as they dart to the tent entrances before focusing intently back upon Santana. "Shh! I know," she rushes out, very much in her own voice.

Santana smirks as she shifts her weight to one leg and rests a hand over her jutted hip. "Of course you know! It's quite obvious. How has no one discovered you yet?" she asks, genuinely curious about how the dim girl evaded notice. She's heard of woman masquerading as men, it is no secret after all. But here is one, right in front of her, and doing a piss poor job of it. If anything Santana is peeved she didn't catch on sooner. And now she must be the one to introduce sense into the girl. "Have you any idea what would happen if you were found out? You can't continue feigning to be a soldier! _You could be killed!_ "

"I won't be killed." Brittany tells her, adamant.

Santana is taken aback by her fortitude. Was this even the same coy patient she'd first walked up to? "Don't be stupid." Santana tells her. "If anyone knew—"

"They _won't_."

Santana groans. "I'm obligated to report you, you know."

"You can't. _Please_ ," Brittany begs, panic quick to seize her heart. She reaches forward, hands grabbing nothing but air as Santana takes a step back, unsympathetic. To her this girl has entangled herself in something far more serious than she imagined. She should face the consequences, before someone else's life is placed on the line because of her insolence. Another man lying in the tent behind her, another's screams she must endure.

Brittany slips down from the table, hesitant as she approaches Santana. Her hands shake, her entire body trembling as she silently pleads with the doctor to look back at her. To see just how much she needs to stay. Needs to remain as Bret.

"Please," Brittany's voice breaks, a sob catching in her throat as she stops just a foot away from the cold woman whom holds her fate in one simple decision. "I had to take my father's place. There was no other way. You must understand, my—"

"Your father sounds like a real jackass," Santana interrupts with a snort.

" _He's not_ ," Brittany snarls defensively. Santana squints up at her, searching the watery eyes for the truth. Why would one woman sacrifice so much for her father? Santana would never do the same for her own. What made Pierce's father such a saint? She moves to turn away, mind made up when Brittany reaches out, fingers wrapping around Santana's arms quickly, holding her in place.

"Let go of me!" Santana hisses.

"He has to stay with my sister," Brittany says, crying freely as her hold on Santana loosens, but her hands remain pressed against the sleeve of the medic's blouse. Santana doesn't move; the touch is deliberate, coaxing. Her arm feels warm beneath Brittany's hold, the taller woman's stare penetrating. Brittany lets out a breath, voice catching as she whispers, "She's very ill and we _n-need_ this money to make her better."

"Then why isn't he here?" Santana asks. Brittany is surprised by the change in Santana's usually surly tone. She sounded uneasy, almost kind. But the snark was back full force not a second later. "Surely he can do his civic duty as a _man_ and fetch some post while you tend to her."

"I can't..." Brittany whimpers. "Medicine confuses me. I would only make things _worse_. This was the only way. I had to take his place when he received the summons."

Santana's stomach sinks. "Does he know you're here?"

"Yes," Brittany tells her, voice still hushed. "He's sent some letters, I have them with me, here, but I ain't so good with words so..." she trails off as her eyes revert back to the ground. Brittany's embarrassed for even admitting such to someone so obviously well read. But there's a hope growing inside her heart, one that takes such strong hold she cannot in good faith let it go. Even now revealed as a woman, a traitor to the very flag they stand beneath, Santana has not gone to turn her in. She stands there, looking torn between doing so and staying. Brittany knows she must keep her here. Must appeal to some part of her, one she feels is buried beneath Santana's callous exterior and biting words so deep down inside the woman that perhaps it hasn't much seen the light of day in a while.

Brittany's seen a glimpse of it, in the way Santana's eyes softened ever so slightly whilst they talked. She needs to see that look back in those brown eyes again.

She needs it more than she thinks she's ever needed something before.

It frightens her, having everything placed so fragilely in the hands of someone meant to heal, yet so inclined to bitterness instead.

As their gazes meet again, Brittany is stunned to find the brown eyes before her so intrigued.

"You can't read, can you," Santana notes, her voice neither judging nor spiteful. She sounds… sad, Brittany thinks. A tinge of pity blooms inside Santana at the thought of Brittany being unable to read. To hold word from a home she obviously misses and yet cannot interpret. _Illiterate, easily confused, and a woman at war._ She really has no idea how Brittany has survived thus far in this camp. Though it would explain her obvious aversion to the bathing troughs out back.

Brittany lets out a sigh as she steps back and sits down atop the table once more. The look was gone again in Santana's eyes almost as quickly as it appeared. "It's all so confusing," she laments as she digs a handful of folded up paper from the pocket just inside her open jacket. She gingerly leafs through the letters, a wistful half of a smile on her lips. "I just wish I could hear his voice again. I was too afraid to ask someone to read them to me but...goodness!" Her head snaps up, eyes fixed upon Santana as a beaming grin pulls across her lips. Santana feels the hairs along the back of her neck stand to attention at the look directed her way. "You can read, can't you? You must being so smart! Could you read them to me?"

Santana hurries over, waving for Brittany to conceal the letters. "Put those away! If someone saw them—"

Brittany takes hold of one of Santana's hand between her own. Santana tries to tear her hand away but stills when Brittany speaks, ever so urgently, " _Please_ Doctor, I need to know if my sister is all right. I don't have much to offer but if you—"

Santana can't take anymore of this, let alone continue to maintain her composure being so close to Brittany. "All right! Shh, I'll read them to you. _Not now_ ," she hisses as Brittany tires to hand the letters back to her. "Later. After supper, I have to go now."

"Wait, what about my contusion?" Brittany asks, touching a few of her fingers to the cap atop her head.

"Concussion." Santana corrects, brushing down the front of her apron. When she's satisfied it's perfect she looks back up at Brittany. "You're obviously fine." _Though strange and missing some vital mental facilities._ "Just a bit bruised from the scuffle. That'll look worse before it gets better," she motions towards the bruise along Brittany's temple. "But if you start feeling nauseous or dizzy come see me. Now go and _please_ bathe!"

Brittany springs up from her seat and before Santana even knows what's occurred she's pulled into a hug. "Thank you! Thank you!" Brittany repeats, squeezing Santana tight.

Santana is sure she's dizzy. A combination of Brittany's vile odor and something else that muddles her thoughts so much she feels on the verge of fainting. She gathers her senses enough to swat at Brittany's arms, mindful of the sore shoulder. "Ugh, enough. _Enough_ ," she growls. "I already have to stand within range of your foul stench, lets not rub it all over me as well."

"I'm sorry," Brittany tells her, quick to release Santana and put a great deal of distance between them once she does. But the smile remains firmly planted on her face. "I'm just so happy you're going to help me."

"Yes, well... " Santana says, flustered as she straightens her apron once again. "Don't make a habit of it or anything. I'm trying to build a reputable reputation here."

"I think you're a wonderful doctor."

Santana's cheeks burn again. "I, uh—"

"And lovely too," Brittany adds with a warm smile. "May I use your trough for my bath?"

Santana nods absentmindedly.

"Oh, thank you!" Brittany beams, a skip in her step as she hurries to button up her jacket. "I promise you I will smell much better come tonight! Good day, Doctor!"

Santana stares, agape, as the strange woman ducks beneath the tent flap and practically flounces back into the camp. She has no idea what she agreed to, or why she can't quite move at the present.

All she can seem to think is that after all that, she still didn't even manage to catch the girl's real name.


	3. The Letters

It's nearing supper when Santana is finally able to leave the medical tent. The day had been surprisingly fraught with boredom after her encounter with the Pierce girl. She likens it to an encounter and _not_ a meeting to stave off any agreeable connotations that may have manifested. Of which, she thinks, she's done a superb job of thus far. Far better even than her usual evening routine of keeping as far from Noah Puckerman as she possibly can. Dwelling on her thoughts finds her now, regrettably, within sight of the boy. And as if to add insult to injury she can see him giving her appraising looks from where he sits surrounded by his friends just down the path. Defting avoiding Puckerman she ducks into the next row of tents and is pleased to find the lane clear of men and therefore clear of any more ignoramuses. She truly wonders how her mother can think she'll ever find a suitable husband here. And for that matter why her father bothers introducing her to anyone at all. Not one man has yet to prove worthwhile let alone been able to carry on a conversation without his gaze wandering southward.

 _Insufferable, all of them_. How other women allow such boorishness she doesn't understand.

The day she meets a decent man, she thinks she may be inclined to believe him a hallucination.

Thankfully the walk back to the tent she shares with her father is short. Their small quarters are just a few rows down from the medical tent they seem to find themselves in sun up to sundown. The regiment has yet to see battle but Dr. Lopez is intent upon being prepared for the inevitable.

That means sometimes rising as early as the soldiers out suffering through drills in the fields. Santana usually watches them as she eats her meager breakfast from the small table just outside her tent. They push along, some obviously far more equipped for what's to come than others. The stragglers sometimes prove amusing to observe. She wonders if Pierce is with them, and if so how she can withstand the grueling exercises. _Have I watched her, unknowingly, running in those fields on those early mornings?_

Santana rolls her eyes as the thought passes. She hardly cares what Pierce does during her mornings. She cares more to think of her own time, easily recalling the men who enter the medical tent after drill sessions, complaining of torn muscles, chest pains and the usual injuries attributed to the unfit. Tending to the truly hurt is her usual morning routine. Sprained ankles, broken fingers and the like. All quickly, and efficiently she might add, taken care of. Her father's scowl as he checks her work is always satisfying. With nothing for him to say, she knows she's done well.

As for the maimed beyond repair, the injuries like the boy from this afternoon with the stake through his foot – those are quick to remind her where she is, and what is soon to come. The severity of those wounds may be rare now, but soon they would be the norm. 'War is no place for a woman,' her father is always telling her. And while she scoffs inwardly and wishes to tell him otherwise she knows doing so will only have her sent straight home. She needs this opportunity.

No matter the horrors she knows she's soon to face.

For the time being she follows his command, explicitly.

She knows better than to question him.

He doesn't have the time to hear of her opinions. Nor does he need them when able-bodied men seem to foil themselves so obviously. It's good practice nonetheless; she just wishes he'd let her contribute more.

Santana is lost in her thoughts as she enters her tent. Her hands nimbly untie the apron around her waist as she steps toward her lone corner, tossing the linen gently to her cot. She can see her journal poking out from beneath her pillow and makes note to jot down the day's patients inside later. For now she wishes to—

"Hello, doctor!"

Santana jumps at the sound, quickly whirling on her feet. Her eyes instantly lock upon the two blue ones staring happily back at her from across the tent. She refuses to let them wander lower, to where the rest of Brittany's body sits, submerged beneath a soapy layer of water in the trough. Brittany sits up straighter, brushing her hands through a wet tangle of blond hair as she smiles over at Santana in greeting.

"I should smell a lot better now," she says, indicating to where a small pile of soap bars sits just along the edge of the trough. "Mister Hummel helped me find your tent and then he let me borrow some of his soap. He said I might need all of it," she giggles.

Santana works her mouth, willing her mind to manifest what she wishes to say faster so she can stop standing gaping like… like some crazed _fool_. With a shake of her head she turns from Brittany, quickly digging through a lower shelf on her bookcase for a spare towel. Once grabbed she tosses it blindly toward the trough.

"Oh, thank you," Brittany says, catching the towel and laying it to rest against the trough edge. "But I have my own."

"No," Santana tells her, still avoiding looking directly in Brittany's direction. Her gaze darts past a ribbon tied to the corner of her bookcase. It becomes her focus point, even as she gestures wildly to her side at Brittany. "You need to go, _now!_ My father should be here soon."

"It's late isn't it," Brittany mentions, catching a glimpse of the sinking sun through the small part in the tent entrance. She looks down at her hands next, fingers significantly winkled beyond belief. _Very late_ , she thinks and stands from her bath, careful not to splash any more water on the ground than she already has. With the towel wrapped tightly around her body she plucks the spare Santana threw over, using it to dry her hair. "How was the rest of your day?"

Santana's shoulders tense as she continues to stand with her back turned. "We are _not_ having a conversation right now."

"Why not?"

"You're indecent and—"

Brittany sighs as she pulls on her trousers. "I think I'm mighty nice."

Santana chances a glance over her shoulder, relieved to find Brittany slipping into a shirt, the buttons already halfway done. She turns to face her, leaning her shoulder casually against the bookcase. With her arms tucked beneath her chest she continues, "and I don't even know your name."

Brittany's eyes seem to gleam playfully as she says, "But you already do."

Santana lets out a snort. "Your name isn't Bret."

"Oh," Brittany's grin falters, her cheeks growing pink. The smile comes right back though, wider than ever as she tells Santana, "I'm Brittany."

"Brittany," Santana repeats slowly. The name is fitting she thinks, _sprightly, just like her_. And she now, _thankfully_ , also has ceased reeking to the high heavens. Santana dreads what must have become of her trough though. _Unsalvageable, most likely_.

Pity, as she'd just gotten used to it.

"It's nice to officially meet you doctor," Brittany says, stepping forward and extending her hand. Santana hates the way her face warms at the ease with which Brittany uses that term. She hesitates, starring down at the obvious offer of friendship. She doesn't want to shake Brittany's hand. The only hands she's ever clasped in greeting were those of people she's detested. Sweaty palms, limp grips, suffocatingingly fat fingers. She didn't want to touch any of them. Brittany's fingers seem harmless enough, and now blessedly free of filth. Bigger than hers, she notices, and so expectant. Trusting. Undoubtedly a dangerous mixture of sentiments.

Reluctantly, she slides her own palm against Brittany's, ignoring the way Brittany's face seems to glow as she shakes her hand tersely. After a brief fleeting moment and not a second more, Santana yanks her hand away, stuffing it back into the crook of her elbow.

"Don't call me that," she tells her gruffly.

Brittany's head tilts slightly in question. Upset. "Why ever not? You are one, after all. I mean—"

Santana closes her eyes, raising a hand to halt any more words that might tumble from Brittany's mouth. She's uncomfortable enough in this situation as is. She never thought getting the recognition she'd always wanted would leave her feeling so flustered and maddened. She's not like her father. She's yet to prove herself to him. "Just," Santana begins to say, opening her eyes to stare up at Brittany, beat and tired of this exchange. "Please, just Santana."

Her impatience must not have come across for Brittany proceeds to nod happily as she says, "All right. Santana it shall be then."

"Thank you, _Bret_ ," Santana croons cynically as she brushes past Brittany to drain the trough. "You can—" she begins to dismiss but her words are lost as Brittany speaks over her.

"Brittany, please. I'm not Bret right now," she corrects her softly, not at all deterred by the return of Santana's prickly nature. She doesn't quite understand the other woman, how she can be the kindest person one moment and turn completely into another the next. She was like two people. And Brittany thinks, perhaps they aren't so different in that respect. Bret is another part of her, one she invented but he existed, same as her. The difference, Brittany knows, is that she can control who she is. Santana on the other hand, she laments, seems in a constant struggle with herself. Trapped almost and unwilling to accept… well, she's not sure which part of her she's fighting with now. Santana's brow always seems furrowed a bit, even when she is just standing there.

It worries Brittany, seeing Santana so obviously at war with herself. They may not have known one another for long but Brittany thinks anyone could think the same of Santana. And while she knows she's not the smartest tool under the bed, she certainly has enough sense to know when someone isn't happy.

And Santana Lopez, Brittany has decided, is the unhappiest person she's ever had the privilege to meet.

And that includes the old cranky Lima baker who lost his shop to a fire thrice, both his sons to pox, his wife to another _younger_ man and his health to a bottle of whiskey every other night. Which, frankly, makes her fear what must have happened to Santana to make her this way.

Santana rolls her eyes before focusing a bored stare Brittany's way. "If you're not Bret now then when are you?"

Brittany thinks on the question a moment, wondering the best way in which to answer. The way that would make Santana just _a bit_ happier. As Brittany braids her hair she replies simply, with utmost truth, "when I'm not with you."

Santana's eyes lose a bit of their sting, softening ever so slightly. Brittany notices, smiling to herself. Santana isn't hard at all to understand, she thinks. _She's scared_. Though of what, Brittany doesn't quite know. She's sure she'll know soon enough; she's a patient girl. She'll wait. The prospect of a friendship, one even as seemingly impossible as this, is just something too precious for her to see lost. And she so does want to see the doctor smile, even if it's just once. She imagines it must be quite beautiful, just like the rest of her.

Brittany moves closer, keeping her thoughts to herself as she collects her old and soiled uniform from the floor. Santana bristles, shifting on her feet as Brittany stands upright again, tall and far too close for her taste. Brittany has her clothes tucked neatly beneath her other arm, that same insufferably worry-free smile planted on her lips. Dark eyes catch sight of the long braid resting just down a uniform-clad shoulder.

"Why not just cut it?" Santana asks, giving a quick flick of the tied blond hair. Her fingers knick Brittany's shoulder, the bruised and sore skin below aching in protest. Brittany flinches, pulling her shoulder away. Santana curses herself. "Damned. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"It's all right," Brittany tells her, giving her a small smile in return. "I know."

"Are you sure?" Santana asks, anxious.

Brittany nods then looks down to her hair, wanting to answer Santana's earlier question before it slips from her mind. Her expression grows solemn as she fingers the ends of her braid. "It's the last part of me that still makes me feel like a girl," she explains, meeting Santana's unsurprisingly bitter gaze once more. Brittany sighs, not knowing when it returned nor why. She continues, undiscouraged, "I don't want to lose that. I feel like I'll forget who I am if I did."

Santana feels it's stupid of her to keep it such an obviously feminine length. Brittany is just asking to be caught. And she'd say as much aloud if it weren't for her stomach suddenly deciding to churn uncomfortably at the thought of such a fate. She shifts on her feet, trying to ward the sensation away. It lingers though, more so as she meets Brittany's gaze once again. But instead of voicing her concern she lets out a harsh chuckle and says, "People don't forget who they are when they get a haircut."

"Not truly," Brittany replies, pensive. "I meant it more poetically."

Santana blinks, quieted by the admission. "Metaphorically, you mean?"

Brittany grins. "I think I know what I mean, it's my hair."

Santana lets out a groan, pushing past Brittany, careful not to pester the healing shoulder as she does. Her cot rests just a foot away and she plops down on it with a slight bounce. "So I take it you won't cut it then?"

"Unless I must," Brittany tells her, looking to the tent entrance and then back to Santana. The sun had already sunk beneath the hill. The shadows in the tent are far darker than they were just moments before. It will soon be supper. Soon she will hear word from home. She smiles over at Santana. "For now this shall do. I'd miss it if I cut it. Emily would be sad to know I'd lost it."

"Who?" Santana quirks a brow as she pulls out some matches from the box beside her bed. She ponders striking up her lamp, but decides against it. An inviting flame would only prolong this meeting further.

"My sister, remember?"

"That's right, the letters," Santana grumbles. "You still wish for me to read them to you?"

"Please," Brittany implores, appreciative. "If it's not too much to ask."

"I promised, didn't I?" Santana replies as she lies back on her cot. "Go, come find me after supper."

"Thank you doc—Santana, thank you Santana," Brittany tells her softly.

"Yes, I'm a saint, I know," she says and motions toward the exit with a lazy flick of her wrist. "Now get out."

Brittany frowns as she adjusts a new cap over her hair. She wants to ask Santana what could be bothering her so, but has a feeling she'd just tell her to leave once again. Wishing her well, she departs. The tent flap settles back into place as Santana listens to Brittany's retreating steps. When they finally fade she feels herself relax against the cot.

The silence of the coming night surrounds her, the tent now encompassed in similar darkness. Her father doesn't return as she assumed he would. _Probably out with some whore_ , she thinks. He isn't very good at hiding his newfound affairs. She's lost count of the times she'd come into the tent during the day to find him entangled in some other woman's arms. _When the cat's away_ , she muses, not bothering to complete her thought. Thinking of her father in any manner as such causes her stomach to stir repulsively. She feels her eyes have already suffered far enough.

Instead she lies there for a long while, just staring up at the tent above, imagining what the stars must look like outside but not caring enough to move. She's seen them before; they're hardly anything spectacular to her. And certainly not something to wish upon as she assumes Brittany must. _It would be so like her_ , she thinks with a roll of her eyes. Santana's long given up hope in dreams and wonder.

They've done so little for her.

And yet astonishingly so much for people like Brittany Pierce.

* * *

Brittany always eats supper with Burt, when his time allows it. Tonight is no exception. They sit alone, as they always do, at his worktable, far from the bustle of the soldiers eating along the tent rows. Burt will entertain her with stories of home, and Brittany will listen intently, sometimes carving a drawing or two on his table with one of the many discarded nails lying about. It isn't that she is bored, quite the opposite in fact. She loves his stories. They deserve to be remembered. So just as all her favorite storybooks were beautifully illustrated, Brittany has set about doing the same for Burt. They aren't very good drawings, she knows, but Burt enjoys them and to her, that's all that matters.

Brittany's eyes are tracing a sheep she recalls carving a week or so ago. Kurt had wanted his own flock to save on money for cloth. She thought it sounded like a lot of extra work. Sheep are fickle. She'd told Burt she preferred looking after pigs. He laughed then, said something she can't quite remember but the memory makes her feel good, happy. It's the same sort of happiness she felt when speaking with Santana. It felt good to be herself.

"I still cannot believe Dr. Lopez allowed you use of his bath," Burt says as he picks up his bowl of stew, emptying the last of the broth down his throat. Brittany nods as she absentmindedly stirs her spoon slowly around her uneaten supper. She feels as though her thoughts are still back in the tent, unable yet to catch up with where she sits now. She can't quite shake Santana from her mind, nor does she wish to. She's never met anyone quite so… so _angry_. It was as if Santana was constantly on edge, waiting for the slightest provocation so she could unleash her sharp tongue. Brittany tired very hard not to upset her, so much wanting to see the would-be doctor relax inside her own skin. There were so many nuances to Santana she wanted to remember, the vulnerability in her eyes whenever she was praised, the tightening of her jaw whenever Brittany drew near. Why was she so uncomfortable? Had she ever had a friend? Someone at all to care for? So many more instances swirl in Brittany's mind and she tries touching upon them all, so afraid of losing them before they can find a home in her memory. They're all significant to her, even the smallest of gestures adding another piece to the puzzle that is Santana Lopez.

Because even though Santana is angry, she's also one of the most extraordinary people Brittany's ever met.

And Brittany really does hope they can become friends.

Burt watches her, curious of the pensive look on Brittany's face. He had expected some type of response from the boy, but Bret's always been the quiet type, so unlike his own son. He smiles, nudging Brittany until her blue eyes seem to lose their haze and focus upon him. "Have you heard a word of what I've said?" he asks with a chuckle.

Brittany blushes, shaking her head in apology.

"I said, I still cannot believe Dr. Lopez allowed you use of his bath," he repeats, this time amusement coating his once inquisitive tone.

"Oh, it wasn't him," Brittany tells him, voice once more lowered in Bret's favor. She takes a bite of her stew before replying, "It was his daughter."

If Burt's eyebrows could rise any higher he's sure they would fill in the missing spots of his hairline. "Santana? _She_ allowed you their bath?"

Brittany hums in agreement, smiling as she sips at the broth. She puts her bowl down though when Burt's stunned expression remains planted on his face. Brittany grows worried. "Is that all right?"

"I don't see why not," Burt says when he finally shakes himself from his stupor. "But it's strange. That girl is as much her father as the sky is blue."

"But it's black now," Brittany notes. "And in the morning it shall be pink."

Burt chuckles. "I stand corrected."

"And she was kind to me," Brittany adds, smiling.

"I guess not all I hear about her is true then."

Brittany can't help it when she asks next, fretful, "What have you heard?"

"Things here and there," Burt says, eyes trained upon Brittany's, gauging whether he should continue or not. It is obvious just by the look in the boy's eyes that Bret has developed a fondness for the surgeon's daughter. Though to the extent of those feelings he's unsure. Perhaps Bret is more like Kurt in this regard. His son always seemed to be surrounded by a flock of woman, spoke highly of them in passing yet in any romantic regard simply closed up like trap, unable to do more than blush and excuse himself post haste. He could tell Bret the truth, that Santana was known just as her father was: ruthless, ill tempered, and much too smart for her own good. Kind was not a word ever uttered about her, let alone attributed. She was well mannered, of that he was sure, but generous? It was possibly even more improbable for her to offer Bret use of their trough than Dr. Lopez. Which only begged the question, what had Bret done to change her mind?

"Mister Hummel?" Brittany waves her spoon in line of his sight.

Burt snaps to, apologizing as he gives her a soft smile. "Sorry, I'm afraid the older I get the more memories I must dredge through."

Brittany doesn't let her hurt over his words show, simply giving him the façade of smile, encouraging him to continue.

"Santana's a strong-minded girl," he decides, happy when Bret perks at his words. "She certainly knows where she's going in life, it seems."

Brittany nods, finishing the last of her stew. Burt wonders if he can venture forward. If Bret will react just like Kurt at his next question. But before he can even open his mouth to speak, a trumpet sounds from down the row, signaling to the camp that evening chores are soon to begin.

Burt smiles over at Brittany. "I think you have some horses to tend to about now."

 _Oh no_ , Brittany thinks, paling. "I have to go," she announces suddenly, springing up from her seat. She collects their empty bowls hurriedly, tripping a bit as she tries to pull her legs out from beneath the table. Her shoulder is stiff as she hugs the bowls to her chest and she winces at the dulled pain. She doesn't care though; all she's focused upon is leaving as fast as her legs will carry her. She completely forgot it is her night to gather the horses. She just hopes Santana isn't too mad at her when she shows up late.

* * *

She was mad. Brittany found her sitting beside a dying fire just a few yards off from the medical tent. Santana isn't even sure why she waited so long, and she certainly had a lot she wished to _tell_ Brittany once she did arrive. But all her gripes died on her tongue as Brittany rushed up, breathless, a stream of sincere apologies already flowing from her mouth.

"It's fine," Santana cuts her off before Brittany's face grows any redder. _God, even her ears are turning pink_ , she notices. Nothing further is said as they sit down beside one another. The flames at their feet warm their legs; Brittany's are crossed in front of her whilst Santana's remain firmly tucked to the side beneath her skirt. The very picture of proud decorum. Brittany adds a bit more wood to fire, careful so as to not let the flames get too near. She settles back beside Santana; their shoulders are barely brushing and yet Santana can swear she can feel Brittany's body heat threatening to overwhelm her own. It's far too close for Santana's comfort but Brittany seems not to notice as she scoots closer, eyes bright and grateful. Her father's letters are peeking out from where they reside, safely tucked into the front pocket of the union coat she wears. Santana counts about five, dreading their length. _At least she smells much better now_ , she notes. Gone is the stench of the century, replaced with the simple crisp smell of cleanliness. _And a bit of grass_ , Santana thinks, spotting some fresh green stains on Brittany's knees.

Her skin crawls though, the feeling of being watched familiar to her. She doesn't have to look around to know the eyes of the soldiers at their own fires are directed toward her, questioning her position next to Brittany. She can practically hear their reproachful thoughts, wondering what the likes of her are doing beside someone as invalid as Pierce.

She's used to it though. They hardly bring her distress.

Ignoring their stares, she brushes her skirt down to cover her legs further as she turns to Brittany.

A smile, one formed of smug satisfaction, crosses her face when just over Brittany's shoulder she spots Puckerman. His mouth hangs open, wide as his eyes as he stares, stunned and affronted back at her. Pleased, she turns back to Brittany.

"I believe you left these," she says, smirking as she pulls from her pocket a small bag filled with the remaining soap bars.

"Oh!" Brittany blushes, taking the bag and hurriedly stuffing it inside her jacket. "I'm sorry I forgot them."

"As you should be. I'd rather not evidence of your visit continue lying about for my father to find."

"I apologize," Brittany tells her, hesitant to meet what she assumes is Santana's withering stare.

Instead her ears are met with the following quietly spoken instruction, "try to remember next time."

Brittany's head snaps up, bewildered.

"Well?" Santana says, growing uncomfortable beneath Brittany's wide stare. She motions toward the letters. "Let's get on with this, shall we?"

Brittany is quick to snap from her daze and pluck the letters from her jacket, laying them carefully down in her lap. The thoughtfulness with which she touches them causes a brow to quirk high on Santana's forehead. Even as Brittany hands her the first, she seems jarred by the other woman's obvious affections for their sender. A brief flash of envy flares up within her. To have such regards for her own father seems so impossible.

"He sent that first," Brittany explains quietly, fingers brushing over the small number jotted in the corner. "I may not be so good with letters but I know my numbers," she grins shyly.

Santana can't help but think the handwriting resembles that of a child. Again she feels a pang of sympathy for the woman beside her. She can't imagine what life must be like, unable to read let alone teach oneself anything of merit. It isn't any type of life she wishes upon anyone.

Expect maybe her father. He would certainly deserve it.

Brittany stares at Santana, hands clasped nervously in her lap. A large part of her wishes nothing more than for Santana to begin reading, and yet another part, a small insignificant piece of herself she tries so hard to disregard warns her otherwise. It whispers in her ear of horror. That the news can only be bad, and wouldn't she rather be ignorant of it all? Does she really want to hurt more than she already does? Could she be all right, if she knew the truth?

 _Yes_ , Brittany repeats to herself, taking a deep, stilling breath as she closes her eyes. She pictures her father, sitting vigilantly beside Emily. Her sister is pale, but the smile on her lips is bright, hopeful, as their father reads to her from Brittany's favorite tale. When she looks back up at Santana she's met with curious yet surprisingly warm brown eyes.

"Are you ready?" Santana asks, unsure of what just crossed Brittany's mind. She looked as if she was preparing herself for the worst, and yet the small smile that sprung to her lips spoke otherwise. Santana feels it's a losing battle, trying to decipher the obviously strange workings of Brittany's thoughts.

Brittany nods, settling herself comfortably in her spot on the ground. Her hands are still twitching but she's resigned herself to feeling nervous out of excitement, not anxiety. _They're all right,_ she tells herself.

Santana begins unfolding the letter, mindful to hold it with a little more care than she typically would other letters. Brittany's eyes watch her hands work raptly.

"Thank you," Brittany whispers as Santana clears her throat to begin reading. Their eyes meet and Santana feels her cheeks warm under the indebted gaze. "Even if it's not all right, thank you for reading them."

Santana wets her lips, a half smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. "You're welcome," she says, the words seeming foreign even as they leave her tongue. She doesn't remember the last time she's ever been thanked, let alone been able to return the sentiments. And while she struggles with this newfound feeling Brittany sits besides her, beaming, for that half a smile was surely a good sign. And what more it only makes her wish to see it again.

Santana focuses back on the letter, eyes instantly absorbing the neat, polished script of the penman. While Brittany may be enigma, her father is clearly an educated man, she thinks.

"What does it say?" Brittany asks, hesitant upon seeing the dark brow furrow. She fears the worst.

"Oh," Santana is snapped from her reverie. She glances over at Brittany, eyes squinted in thought. "It's just your father's penmanship is…well, it's exquisite."

Brittany grins proudly. "He's a very good writer."

"Why did he never teach you to read then?"

Her smile falters. "He tried," Brittany begins to say, eyes tracing over the pattern on Santana's blouse collar. Santana's hand instinctively moves to touch the spot, snapping Brittany's attention back up to her eyes. "I'm just not a very good student."

Santana squints more, enquiring, "Why?"

Brittany shrugs, a pink hue blooming across her cheeks. Embarrassed, she nods back to the letter. "Could you read it to me?"

Santana watches her for a moment, intrigued, before turning back to the letter. "Dated the fourteenth of August, _Dear son_ ," she reads, pausing as she gives a giggle. She looks over at Brittany. "I can see cleverness wasn't hereditary."

"I'm not smart like him," Brittany tells her evenly, expression hardened. "But I'm smart enough."

Santana stiffens, saying nothing in response before she continues reading. "We miss you back home. I know why you've volunteered and while I'm upset with your decision I must respect your choice to do so. I've sent word to Mr. Schuester in hopes you are in the same regiment. I await his response. Do heed my advice and keep well and safe. Find an ally, someone you can trust. Someone who is hopefully reading this to you at this very moment…" Santana trails off, a sinking feeling forming in her stomach.

A hand comes to rest over her forearm, Brittany's fingers brushing against her sleeve.

"I trust you," she says softly.

Santana swallows thickly, chest burning as she rolls her shoulders, desperate to shake away the sincere feeling creeping beneath her skin. She can't meet Brittany's gaze, but she can feel the blue eyes focused upon her face, urging her to read on. Repositioning the letter within her grasp she continues, voice quiet, "Know I only want was is best for you and your sister. Emily's spirits are improving, as is her health. She wishes to write to you but I am afraid you know why I must keep her from doing so. She could hardly restrain herself when she saw me writing. She sends her love, as do Apple, Tubbington, Clarence, King Benjamin, Daisy, Louie, that mouse you refuse to let me harm beneath the porch that I've forgotten the name of ("Pip!" Brittany interjects with a grin) and of course, myself. Send word home if you can. Come back to us soon. I love you, son. Keep safe, Pa."

Santana holds the letter for a moment, unbelieving of the promising words she's just delivered. It is clear Brittany's father cares for his daughter. Loves her beyond measure of doubt. Santana imagines a balding tower of a man, wishing nothing more than to sweep into this camp and steal his daughter back home. But it's obvious by his unspoken words he knows doing so would only jeopardize everything. And with restraint, he sends his words of welfare instead. Santana is sure Brittany did not catch on to everything left unsaid. How could she when she only seems to take things at face value? She wonders if Brittany knows just how upset he is with her. She wonders more if she should tell her.

"He wants me to leave," Brittany says as she takes the letter from Santana and hands her the next. "I knew he would worry, but not this much. It makes me sad."

Santana stares at her, incredulous. "How did you—?"

"He's my father, Santana," Brittany tells her. "You may have been speaking but it was his voice. I could _hear_ him."

And Santana nods, a newfound respect acquired for the strange woman beside her as she takes the next letter and begins reading anew.

She makes it three quarters down the page before footsteps at her back halt her words.

"Good evening, _ladies_ ," Scott Cooper says by way of greeting as he comes to a stop behind the two women, wearing upon his face his usual expression of insufferable arrogance.

Brittany is quick to muffle her gasp, fearing the worst as she tugs down hard on her cap. He can't know, she's been so _careful_. Before Santana even realizes the move she's made, she reaches forward and places a hand atop Brittany's nearest knee. Scared blue eyes peek out from beneath the brim of her cap, locking upon her own. Santana gives her knee a squeeze and then turns her surliest expression up at the newcomer.

"You _slay_ me with your originality," she drones, pleased when his face reddens and eyes flash with frustration. Santana clicks her tongue at him. "Can't get your fun elsewhere tonight? No, wait, let me guess. The whores have bored of your tiny prick, haven't they?"

Brittany stifles her chuckle into her hands.

Cooper's face burns hotter; his lips purse into a thin line.

"You may want to get that temper under control there," she notes with a smirk. "Lest the more myopic of boys confuses _you_ for a harlot tonight."

" _Enough_ ," Cooper hisses, aware of the stares and ears tuned his way. He lowers himself some, bending so as to not be overheard. His eyes are steely, unnerving as they stare down into Santana's. She holds his gaze, willing her unease not to show as she continues wearing her bored façade. "You want to consort with the eunuch, _fine_!" he spits. "Consider this your last chance to do otherwise."

Something connects in Santana's mind then. What little annoyance he originally caused her increases tenfold, her irritation quick to manifest to fury. " _It was you_ ," she growls. " _You_ scared the horses."

Cooper sneers down at her, "Good lot that did."

" _Bastard_ ," Santana shoves him away roughly. Cooper stumbles, caught off guard by the sudden strike. She moves to stand, but is stopped by a hand wrapping firmly around her upper arm. Brittany shakes her head, releasing Santana only once she settles back into place beside her. Santana turns back toward Cooper, scowling as she tells him, "Leave us."

"Gladly," Cooper snarls, straightening his jacket as he quits the two women and storms off toward his tent.

"I cannot _believe_ him," Santana seethes as she turns to face the fire once more. "He could have _killed_ you with that rash prank! Why hold me back?"

She turns to Brittany, wondering why the woman seems so quiet all of the sudden. Surely she'd want to chime in. Degrade the horrid boy who'd hurt her so. But Brittany is simply staring at her, eyes full of something far more than just simple appreciation. It frightens Santana a bit, to be honest. Makes her heart hammer in her chest, her fingers twitch.

Face heat.

Brittany touches her hand to Santana's knee, a smile playing across her lips as she whispers, "thank you."

Hotter yet. "He was being a twit," Santana grumbles, tossing a stick to the flames. They eat it eagerly, the fire burning as hot as she feels her skin has suddenly become. "How stupid of him, I can't imagine what else they've put you through."

"Usually silly things," Brittany answers. "Just last night they put a snake in my bedroll."

"They put _what_ in your tent?" Santana exclaims.

"A snake, but don't worry," Brittany tells her quickly, smiling. "She's all right."

Santana blinks, astounded and disbelieving. " _She_?"

Brittany nods, contented. "Lucy."

"You… _named_ the snake."

"Would you like to see her?" Brittany asks, genuinely excited. "She sleeps under the rock outside my tent."

" _No_!" Santana squeals suddenly, jerking back. At the raise of one of Brittany's brows she quickly composes herself, tucking some dark hair behind her ear as she says calmly, "I mean no, that's all right. Lucy can stay under her rock."

Brittany stares down the line of tents toward her own, a small smile on her face. "She's probably out to supper anyhow."

A comfortable silence envelops the two; Santana relaxing in her posture as she reaches down to the ground for the letter she hadn't finished reading. "Shall we see how Emily is now?" she asks Brittany with a gentle smile. The first real smile Brittany's seen grace her face. It elates her.

Brittany bounces upon the ground, nodding as she leans toward Santana to hear the latest.

The rest of the letters read much the same. An interruption from Puckerman halted the third and Santana was surprised he'd only wandered over to see to it they were all right. That and to arrogantly deliver the news that he'd personally seen to giving Scott Copper a matching shiner upon his own eye. Brittany grimaced at the information and Santana could instantly fathom why. Scott Cooper was sure to return the sentiments. And who knows what he'd plan this time. She shooed Puckerman away, promising to give him the verbal lashing his fists had seen to it that he now deserved. With him gone, and Brittany's once jubilant mood hindered she continued to read, hoping the letters would resume bringing only good tidings.

The fourth did. The crinkle of a smile came back to Brittany's eyes.

The last, though, brought a grim expression to her usually cheerful face. It was stark in contrast to what Santana had quickly grown accustomed to.

Brittany's eyes gleam wet with unshed tears.

Emily is once again in poor condition.

Santana rereads the letter as Brittany sits quietly beside her, poking at the fire with a mangled twig. It was dated merely two and a half weeks ago.

_She hasn't been able to keep her meals down, and I fear a fever is soon to strike again._

It sounds like nothing but a common flu, and given Emily's age she was sure to have recovered by now. A month it's been, hasn't it, that's she's been sick? This isn't just any simple sweating sickness to be cured with bed rest and fluids. Could it have worsened since? Santana makes a mental note to herself to check into what could be ailing the youngest Pierce so. _Any number of things_ , she ponders. _Not a pox. At worst vomiting would suggest cholera, perhaps, but a cough no—_

"Santana?" Brittany calls to her softly. Santana turns toward Brittany, giving a hum in regards to her attention. "I know I've asked a lot of you already, but if I could trouble you again I'd like to send word home. Would you write for me?"

Santana hands Brittany back her letters, biting her cheek as she mulls the request over. This was only supposed to last one night, whatever this was that had formed between them. Santana can't think of anything to define it; a friendship assumes too much, acquaintance too little. She despises this feeling of uncertainty that pools in her gut every time Brittany manages to hold her gaze. _She_ knows what this is, and what more she thrives in it. Wants more of it if her request is any indication to go by. Santana thinks she should shake her head and be done with it. But Brittany's words echo in her head, _I trust you_. Trust isn't something anyone has ever given her before…

"Santana?" Brittany ventures, cautious yet pleading.

And Santana tells her, "of course," because really there is no other answer. She thinks it's worth it though, just to see the bashful expression on Brittany's face and the way the other woman tries so hard to contain her joy. She doesn't know what makes her say what she does next, almost as if some other part of her is in control of her mouth instead of her mind. But she doesn't regret the words. "And I'll teach you to read."

Brittany snaps her head back, astonished. "You will?" she asks. "Truly?"

"Yes," Santana tells her, a prideful feeling swelling deep inside her as she smiles almost shyly at Brittany. "And perhaps soon you may be able to pen your own letter back to your father."

Brittany's eyes widen, smile broad. "That would be wonderful!"

"But I must go now," Santana says quickly for Brittany appears to wish to launch herself into her again. And Santana feels one embrace today was sufficient enough. "Find me tomorrow night? In a _timely_ manner."

"Yes, I won't forget! And thank you Santana, thank you!"

It's only after walking away, a tranquil smile on her lips that she realizes what she's agreed to. Her steps halt, expression falling. "Damn and fuck," Santana curses beneath her breath. _What have I done?_


	4. Lessons

Thursday began with rain. The last storm of a quickly forgotten summer rolled in by the dawn. With it strong winds whipped flags upon their masts as soldiers scurried to reinforce their tents. It hasn't let up. Thick heavy sheets of cold rainwater fall from the thundering clouds above, soaking through the uniforms of the men in the 106th running up on the nearby field. The storm hasn't stopped morning drills from taking place, nor the loud shouts of Captain Hartman forcing his company to run through the slick mud. If anything he seems even angrier with his men today.

Brittany doesn't much like when Captain Hartman screams at them. But she understands he must. The thunder is so loud at times she can barely hear her heavy pants let alone his commands. She feels his anger sprouts not from his distaste with the ill-timed storm, but from frustration with a few of the less sure-footed of his men. Especially ones like Scott Cooper who keep slipping and slowing the rest of them down. Again she hears the splat of his body colliding with the ground ahead. Puckerman doesn't stop his strides as he plants a foot solidly into Cooper's back, forcing the downed soldier further into the mud.

Brittany can see Puckerman chuckling to himself, even between his heavy breaths, ahead of her. She stops her pace when she comes up beside Cooper and without second thought extends a hand down in aid. She knows he's the last soldier here that deserves help, let alone from the very person he saw fit to torment. But Brittany hopes he may remember this moment and hopefully, at the very least, cease with the petty name-calling. He looks up at the offer, his usually stony blue eyes exposing hints of appreciation. Yet when his gaze focuses upon the owner, the hardness is back, a sneer quick to manifest on his face.

He spits out a mouth full of murky water, swatting Brittany's hand aside. "You're not better than me, _eunuch_."

"I never said I was," Brittany tells him, bristling at his harsh tone. "And my name is _Bret_." She tries to help him to stand but he shoves her aside, grunting curses beneath his breath. Brittany is left standing beneath the heavy rain as he takes off in a sprint to rejoin the line. She doesn't think anything she can ever do will change his opinion of her. But she knows she won't put up with his taunts anymore.

She quickly jogs up to the back of her company, mindful of the pudgy soldier's steps in front of her. His feet have kicked up more mud in three steps than seemed to cover Cooper's body with one fall.

"Mornin' Pierce," Puckerman greets her, breathless as he falls into line beside her.

Brittany keeps her eyes forward, watching the rolls of fat bounce along the back of the pudgy man's neck. It's a bit disturbing, but Brittany thinks safer than engaging in a conversation with Noah Puckerman. Of what she recalls of the man, he wasn't very nice to Santana.

…or was it Santana that wasn't very nice to him?

"I said _hello_ ," Puckerman tells her, smirking as he gives her shoulder a nudge. She catches a glimpse of him from the corner of her vision. His eyes are squinted against the rain pelting against his face and Brittany wonders why he's forgotten his hat. It is a bit irresponsible of him to go without one today. But Puckerman seems not to care, his grin growing wider as he chuckles, "is that how you boys greet each other," he wheezes. "…in Lima?"

Her head whips toward him, an expression of astonishment on her face. "How'd you—"

"Had a lovely chat… with Burt… before session today," Puckerman says, winded a bit more than usual. "Says you're a… good fellow."

Brittany gives him a small smile, nodding as their Captain leads them back down the hill toward camp, much to the relieved sighs of many men in line.

"You should… head over… to our tent... _tonight_ ," Puckerman's last word is strained as he lets out a groan, wincing at a pull in his back. He gives Brittany a smile, even despite the discomfort. She wonders why he's so out of shape, they've been running for miles every morning for about a month now, yet looking at Puckerman you'd think this was his first day. The next words he rushes out quickly, " _Music, juice, bring Miss Santana_."

He takes off back to his place in the line with a wink, leaving Brittany to consider his offer.

As the company pushes onward, the rain pelting ever harder, boots sodden and expressions grave, Brittany feels light. She checks on Captain Hartman's position, pleased when she spots him atop his horse just a few dozen men ahead. She dashes out of line quickly and back into her original place. Puckerman's invitation, even born of his conquest for Santana's affections, is long awaited. For despite being adamant of Bret's refusal to join, Brittany has only ever wanted to be accepted as one of the boys, as just another soldier.

Not a whelp or dunce.

Not a pansy or a eunuch.

Just Bret. Just _him_ and nothing more.

* * *

Brittany already has their fire ready by the time Santana has finished her evening meal. It's a welcome heat the flames provide, warding off the unusually chill winds the earlier rainstorm saw fit to bring. An old grayed gum blanket is spread upon the ground, a bit damp in places, the waterproof material having seen better days. But Brittany was careful to keep a spot as dry as possible for Santana. Brittany had noticed yesterday the fine material of the doctor's dress. And of the glimpse of her she saw today she knew it'd be a pity if her new one were to be ruined by a bit of mud.

"Here," Brittany holds her hand out as Santana, arms full of books, finally comes to a stop in front of the blanket. "Let me take those for you. I made sure there was a good dry part so you don't muck up your pretty dress."

"I've got them," Santana tells her, hugging them closer, wary of Brittany's proximity to the fire. These were some of her most prized possessions and given what little she's come to know of the blonde, she doesn't quite trust them in her neglectful hands.

"Let me help you to sit than," Brittany concedes, hand still extended kindly.

The smile Brittany wears is gentle and warm; it makes part of Santana want to turn on her heels and head back to her tent. To bury her head in books and forget all about this strange girl with her overshadowing brightness. For to Santana, Brittany Pierce is one giant oxymoron. A headache-inducing, stomach-fluttering, addictive contradiction. For every minute spent in her company Santana both craves and spurns more. She cannot make sense of it. The world is not a good place. It doesn't contain good people. It is full of corruption, deceit, and horrors Santana is sure Brittany has been kept entirely ignorant of. There is no place in it for people like her. And yet here she stands, poised at the brink of a war, smiling, eyes shining in the light of the small fire.

The very picture of simple-mindedness, innocence... and goodness.

It makes Santana want to run. Far, _far_ away.

But like the contradiction she tries to discern, she remains.

"I'm fine," she mutters; stomach still a mess of churning _conflicting_ emotions as she carefully sits herself down.

Brittany happily settles beside her much as she did the night before. Her eyes wander down to the books in Santana's arms. The spines are thick and the leather worn. Brittany is a bit apprehensive of them, especially when without so much as a word Santana plops one down into her lap. It's far heavier than even she imagined upon first glance. She can't conceive how difficult the words inside must be. At this point running another seven some miles in the downpour of the century sounds a far better alternative than embarrassing herself trying to decipher the otherwise harmless book in her lap. Her throat feels dry and scratchy as Santana meets her eyes.

Brittany's nervous, of that much Santana can plainly see. She gives her a small, encouraging smile, or what she hopes is anyway. She hasn't had much use of the gesture, though Brittany seems receptive, her posture relaxing some as she brushes some imagined dirt from the book cover.

"Do you know the alphabet?" Santana asks.

"Some," Brittany answers, reserved.

Santana thinks nothing of her quieted and demure tone. She claps her hands together, Brittany startled by the noise as Santana announces, "All right, let's just dive in, shall we?" She leans over and opens to a page somewhere deep within the book. "Try pronouncing the first word on this page. Slowly, if you must."

Brittany bites her bottom lip as Santana's index finger taps down on a rather lengthy section of small print. "Santana, this first word is too difficult. It has _fifteen_ letters in it."

"Oh," Santana hadn't expected her to not even _try_. The optimist, giving up? Unheard of! She looks down at the page, realizing perhaps giving her 'A Manual of Medical Diagnosis' as a starter text wasn't exactly the most brilliant of ideas. But her medical journals were all the books she had on hand and this had the largest print… even if it was a minuscule difference between the others. It would have to suffice. And as she skims the page she spots a few shorter phrases sprinkled throughout paragraphs. With renewed confidence she instructs, "Try the next word."

Brittany raises the book, squinting, before letting it fall and declaring hopelessly, "That one has _twenty-one_."

"Okay, look Brittany, you're going to have to try sounding them out otherwise you'll never learn."

"But these are _too_ hard. Can't you read it to me first?"

"No!" Santana exclaims, voice hushed. "If I read it then you'll just mimic what I say and thus you shan't learn at all!"

Brittany sighs. "I'll probably forget anyway."

"Ugh, just…" Santana trails off, combing her mind for an answer to this suddenly exasperating and trying dilemma. When she looks back up at Brittany her irritation dissolves, eyes softening as she reminds herself she agreed to this. Agreed to help the hopeless. Teach the unteachable… she wonders how long Brittany's father lasted before he gave up. Would five minutes be a new record? Santana takes a calming breath, tucking some hair behind her ear. She scoots closer to Brittany, peering down her arm to the open book. "Try things less than five letters long, all right?"

"I don't see many," Brittany replies quietly, defeated. "This book is so confusing."

"It's a medical journal, it's not exactly meant for everyone. Besides, they're the only books I brought with me," Santana explains. She glances down to the next few words, grinning. "Look the next one only has two letters. That's perfect, try that one."

Brittany gathers her courage, licking her lips before pronouncing aloud, "Oove."

Santana blinks. "That's 'of', Brittany."

Brittany's cheeks flush. "…some people say oove."

"Those people are pretentious bastards. Next word."

"Tee-hay-ee?"

A beat.

"The."

"This is too hard!" Brittany groans, slamming shut the book as she lets her body fall back along the ground with a thud. Her head isn't on the blanket; the back of her neck is unfortunately now wet from the puddle below. She thinks she may need another bath after this, but the thought is fleeting. Her eyes are focused above. The last vestiges of daylight paint the heavens a deep purple, the moon just starting the shine against the silver clouds. She watches a few of the earlier storm clouds roll overhead, blotting out the stars trying to stream their light down from above. She wants to wish upon the brightest, hope for a miracle, anything that will suddenly grant her the ability to read. She doesn't want to disappoint Santana. Not the smart doctor with the pretty eyes who volunteered her precious time to help her.

"Brittany," Santana ventures quietly, not quite wanting to interrupt the thoughts that seem to be storming behind the suddenly dark blue eyes. Brittany blinks, mind clearing as she focuses up at Santana hovering just beside her. She has a sudden urge to tuck the fallen section of brunette hair behind Santana's ear, much the same as she's seen the woman do a number of times already. Her fingers twitch in want but she holds her arm still, sighing as she sits up on the blanket.

"I'm sorry," Brittany tells her, smiling apologetically as she reopens the book and rests it gently in her lap.

"How about we start over?" Santana asks, withdrawing from the books beside her a thinner, more promising looking journal. When she opens it, Brittany realizes why. It's blank save for a few pages near the beginning filled with a swooping cursive script. "Relearning the alphabet. This is an 'A'," Santana says, scrawling the letter in the same fluid hand with which the beginning of the journal is filled.

"Is that your diary?" Brittany asks.

Santana lets out an indignant snort. "Journal. It's my _journal_."

Brittany is genuinely curious when she asks next, "Why do you keep one?"

"Research mainly," Santana tells her. "We see a lot of patients and I like to know what we're doing for them: injuries sustained, medications given, that type of thing."

"I tried keeping a diary once," Brittany says, ignoring when Santana intones for the second time that hers is a journal. "But I couldn't remember at the end of the day what to say."

"It might have helped if you could _write_ ," Santana says with a chuckle.

Brittany smirks. "Pictures say as much as words you know."

Santana eyes flicker up to Brittany's face. Brittany is staring at her, amused. And yet despite the laughter shining in her eyes Santana swears she sees more shades of blue she thinks are possible with the orange fire burning so close beside them. Each of the splashes of color in Brittany's eyes is warm, an impossible feat she thinks, given their cool shade. _A beautiful oxymoron_ , Santana amends to herself. Full of trust and—

She tears her gaze away with a groan and back to the _journal_ in her lap, "Let's just get back to the alphabet. As I said this is an 'A', it's pronounced ah."

"That's confusing," Brittany frowns. "Why is it two things? Why not just make two different letters?"

"I don't—" Santana begins but stops herself just as suddenly, equally perplexed by Brittany's confusion. She scribbles a lowercase 'a' beside the other, deciding it best to just carry on and ignore further input from the obviously oblivious woman. "It makes an 'ay' sound on it's own but when placed next to other letters it makes an 'ah' sound. For example, the word apple. Do you hear the 'ah'? Ahhhpple. Do you…You're not getting any of this, are you?"

Brittany's glazed eyes sharpen. "I'm sorry," she says, cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment. "I told you I wasn't a very good student."

"Why don't we just stop for the night then," Santana offers, plucking the book from Brittany's lap. "It's apparent I need to rethink my strategy."

"I'm hopeless."

Santana feels a pang of guilt flutter in her gut at the dejection in Brittany's tone. "You're not," she says. And smiles when she tells Brittany, "I promised to teach you, didn't I?"

Brittany meekly allows a nod.

Santana grins. "I don't break my promises."

Before Santana can move to stand Brittany lays a hand over her arm. Brittany can't quite meet her gaze, eyes focused somewhere just over Santana's shoulder. "I know you don't much like Noah," she says.

 _Puckerman?_ Santana wonders where Brittany is heading with this. Nodding for Brittany to continue she sits back down again. She hopes the stupid boy hasn't done something horrid to Brittany.

Or stupid.

He is in for _quite_ the evening if either are the case.

"He invited me to bring you to their fire tonight. They're to play music." Brittany brightens.

"I'll pass on that invitation," Santana says with a roll of her eyes. The last thing she wants to be doing is engaging in pleasantries with Noah Puckerman. She'd never hear the end of it.

"I do miss dancing," the admission is soft, nothing but a whisper. Again Santana finds herself drawn into Brittany's gaze, thankful for once the eyes are not focused upon her own, but over a few rows to where Santana can see Puckerman and his two friends just beginning to settle around their own fire. An old fiddle is being tuned by the blonde haired boy, Evans, she recalls.

"You should go," Santana says, collecting the books into her arms. "I needed to do a bit of reading, anyway."

"Why?" Brittany wonders aloud. "You're already a wonderful doctor."

Santana is sure if Puckerman wasn't currently drowning a mug of beer down his throat that he would surely be able to see the shade of red now painted upon her cheeks. She clears her throat, shifting uncomfortably, her dress feeling itchy for the first time in years as she tells Brittany, "I'm not one yet. I'm still studying, remember? It's why I'm here with my father, to learn."

"Or you could dance with me tonight?" Brittany grins, sly.

"Another time," Santana tells her, purposely avoiding her gaze again. And because she needs a distraction she adds, "Do you by chance have those letters from your father with you?"

"Always," Brittany replies, pulling them from inside her jacket. She hands them to Santana. "Are we to read them again?"

"I just want to check something," Santana explains. She waves toward Puckerman's fire. "Go dance, I promise to return these to you tomorrow."

"I wish there was more I could do to help," Brittany admits, eyes focused down upon the letters. Santana looks up at her, surprised to find Brittany so suddenly upset. "She's no better and I've sent all my earnings. What more can I do but send my love and prayers?"

It's a simple enough question. _What more could she do?_ The answer is simple. The weight though, burdensome. Santana swallows thickly. "Live."

Brittany nods, knowing full well what Santana means. The union jacket upon her soldiers feels heavier at the thought. She shrugs the feeling aside, not wanting to dwell in such negativity. She gives Santana a small, thankful smile. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"If Puckerman acts an ass just wallop him and say it's from me."

"Bret'll be fine," Brittany grins. "Good night, Santana!" she calls behind her as she takes off to join the boys.

"I'm serious!" Santana shouts after her. Brittany's laughter carries back to her and Santana sighs, smiling. She hopes Puckerman behaves himself, and then quickly reminds herself he has no reason not to. Bret Pierce is who is jogging toward him, not Brittany. She watches the _boys_ greet each other, Puckerman overtly gracious in his sentiments. She rolls her eyes, knowing full well he's only doing so because she is still within eyesight. Sam Evans is quick to strike up some notes on his fiddle and the oafish one – Hudson, Santana believes he's called – sings along to the music.

Brittany taps her foot along with the tune, her smile bright even from afar. Puckerman is soon to join in song with Hudson, pulling Brittany up on her feet. The dance they start is informal, unrehearsed and inane. _Idiots, all of them_ , Santana mutters beneath her breath. She doesn't look away though. Even dancing ridiculously beside Puckerman, head thrown back with laughter, Brittany is all charm. Her movement is fluid, effortless next to Puckermans offbeat kicks and stomps. It's clear Brittany is holding back, effecting as much of Bret as she can into her mannerisms.

And yet still mesmerizing.

Santana wishes she'd have joined, if only to save Brittany from such a painful dance partner.

The thought makes her blush and she shakes her head, turning her back to their fun.

There is something more pressing her attention is needed for.

She unfolds Hendrick's letters, rereading the last few. She wonders if their town doctor had been able to diagnose Emily yet. She herself had spent some time combing her books and journals for an answer. Only one ailment seemed to fit the symptoms, almost exactly and unfortunately.

Consumption. A wasting disease so costly it is sure to take Emily's life if given the time. There were no cures, no treatments to ever successfully stop let alone quell the illness. And of the medication to help ease the suffering, all were expensive. Far much more money than Santana knows Brittany is able to send home.

She wishes to push the thought aside, hoping the sinking feeling in her gut will disappear with it, but stops herself short. There may not be much she can do for Emily from afar, but there is certainly one thing she can guarantee the family receives. Quickly, she gathers her books and heads back to her tent. Her father is out, again. She's pleased by his absence. It is so much easier to take money from his pouch with him gone. Once done she replaces the wallet back on his shelf, careful to arrange it just as she'd found it.

And then she pens a letter to Brittany's father, instructing him on what needs to be done next.

* * *

**October 4th, 1862**

Burt is busy trying to mend a cannon. Unsuccessfully, he laments. Of what little the boys who'd wheeled it in could manage to say past their sour faces he concludes that they'd loaded it wrong. And in return it had explosively backfired on them. Soot coated their uniforms; some sported rather garish slices through their skin. It was obvious they were hurting, and not just physically. Dr. Lopez surely won't be kind to them once he tends to their wounds and their Captain must be furious. Cannons were hard to come by, and even worse to attempt repairs upon. Burt took pity on them, assuring the sullen boys he'd do all he could.

About now, Burt is starting to think he's done just about all he can. At best he thinks he can melt the metal down, forge some more bayonets for the soldiers. As he thinks of remedies Bret wanders back in from the small errand he's been running, fresh faced and ready for more work.

"You look tired," Brittany says as she takes in Burt's slumped position on the ground beside the cannon. Burt wipes some sweat from his forehead, agreeing with a nod. "Would you like some water?"

"Please," Burt answers, giving Brittany a gracious smile. She rushes back out the tent with his empty canteen, leaving him once more with the giant hulk of useless metal. He's just started to wheel it out his back entrance when footsteps meet his ears. They're brisk and determined as they approach his tent, the dirt crunching loudly in their wake. Burt stills, waiting for his guest.

He raises a brow as the visitor enters his tent. He knows quite well why Miss Santana Lopez would be standing in his work quarters. It is no secret about camp that she has been spending a great deal of time with Bret. And at night, no less. Thus rumors are widespread. Burt is disinclined to believe any of them. Especially the more _colorful_ of stories he's heard. Bret had told him forthright what was happening between the two of them on those nights beside the fire. It's why he smiles now at Santana as she stands in his quarters. He was quite wrong about this one, he thinks. So very wrong.

She seems almost hesitant as she approaches his table, eyes drinking in the small space. In her hand he catches glimpse of an envelope before she lays it upon the surface. He watches her for a moment, curious as she traces over a few of Bret's carvings on the tabletop.

With light chuckle he steps forward, hoping not to surprise the girl as he greets her warmly. "Afternoon, Miss Santana."

She jumps anyway, blushing as she composes herself and shakes her hair back over her shoulder. She gives him a curt nod, "I was told I could find Bre-Private Pierce here."

Burt grins. "You _could_."

Santana squints at him, eyes darting down to his leg. "You're Burt Hummel, aren't you?"

"He's told you of me, has he now?"

Santana softens, realizing whom she is speaking with. "He's fond of you."

"I could say the same for you as well."

The reddening of her cheeks is almost lost to the shadows of the sun playing across her face, but Burt notices. It makes him glad. If anyone at this camp deserves to find happiness, he thinks, Bret Pierce certainly is at the top of his list. Burt keeps his thoughts to himself as he settles on his stool, arms folded across the table. He points over to the tent entrance. "He just went to fetch me some fresh water, should be back shortly." He smiles, motioning for her to take a seat.

Santana does so, thanking him with a mumble as she tucks some wayward hairs behind her ear. He studies her, thinking of all the wonderful things Bret has spoken of her character. It is obvious the girl is beautiful, but what more Bret sees in her he cannot fathom. Santana can hardly meet Burt's eye let alone sit still, it seems. And for someone so renowned for her cutting voice she is being rather quiet. Shy even.

Santana grows uncomfortable in the silence. She's never found herself in a situation such as this, with a man, dare she say, she respects. Burt Hummel is everything Brittany has ever told her he was. Cordial, likable and good humored. Though in truth all Brittany had ever told her was that he was "just like my Pa." Hendrick's letters, if they could be spoken in his own voice, Santana imagines would sound much like Burt Hummel. His kind gaze makes her fidget though. She's so unused to decent men and involuntarily taps a few fingers on the table as she asks, "Why are you smiling so?"

Burt tilts his head, smile pulling wider. "Why shouldn't I be?"

Santana holds in her urge to scoff. "We're at war," she answers, motioning around her. "Not exactly the happiest of places."

"Even more reason to enjoy the time we've been given," Burt tells her. "Why should we mourn a fate that could be when we've been given this day to live? Enjoy it while you can, Miss Santana. The peace won't last for much longer."

His words make her skin prickle with dread. Given his tone she knows he speaks from experience. It unsettles her, hearing him speak so candidly when others are so apt to drown their realities in drink. She doesn't care to think much more on it.

Again her fingers rap against the table. "Did you draw these?" she asks.

The one beneath her thumb looks like a cow, though it could also be an oddly shaped house when she tilts her head just right. Whoever drew them certainly wasn't artistically inclined. Perhaps even the worst artist Santana has ever encountered. Burt seems skilled with tools though, if the horseshoes pinned along the tent wall were any indication. Some were even quite beautiful.

"Bret did," Burt answers, laughing at the sight of Santana's once judgmental expression turning to shock.

She doesn't understand. She'd never seen Brittany drawing, not once. Briefly she recalls the blonde telling her of trying to keep a diary once. _It'd consisted of pictures or some nonsense_ , she remembers. Though, she thinks, it is probably for the best Brittany hasn't drawn outside this tent given her lack of talent. Brittany doesn't need something else for the likes of the Scott Coopers in this camp to tease her about. Maybe if she practiced more she could get better… some of them aren't too god-awful. A few are even a bit charming. It intrigues her though, why she's drawn so much upon Burt's table. She can see a few crude people standing beside what looks to be a tree. Two of them are holding hands… or holding bread, she's not quite sure. Squeezed between two other drawings is a sickly rendition of a human foot. A horseshoe-type rainbow is etched just above it. "They're certainly… _interesting_." Santana notes.

"They don't make much sense to me," Burt explains as he brushes some nails aside into a hanging pouch, revealing more of Brittany's work. He smiles over at Santana. "But they do to him. I think it helps him to remember, drawing what he sees of the stories I tell him. If only I could draw his chores on his arm, eh?" he chuckles.

Santana doesn't join him though. It suddenly dawns on her why her lessons with Brittany were such a failure. _It's_ _not the letters she can't recall_ , she thinks, grinning. _She needs pictures to find them!_

"I have to go!" she announces, springing up from her chair. "Could you see to it this is delivered to Bret's father?" She hurries to seal the envelope, the briefest flash of money peeking out from within. Burt nods, accepting the envelope as she tosses it across the table toward him.

He wonders what Santana could be doing, sending that amount of money home to the Pierce family. "What about Bret?" he asks.

"Tell him to meet me by my tent tonight!" And with that she runs out from the room, skirt billowing behind her, leaving Burt to the hundreds of unanswered questions that have decided to make permanent nest in his head.

* * *

It's quiet in the camp as Brittany makes her way to Santana's tent. There's a certain tension in the air, born of the stillness after the storm. Even Burt seemed to feel it this afternoon, his usual light air replaced with the burdens of deep thought. She wanted to ask him what thoughts could be plaguing him so, but he was involved in his work and she didn't want to distract him. He merely told her of Santana's visit before the oven fire required his attention once more. As she walks now, she imagines the rain must have washed away the men's voices as easily as it washed the dust collecting over their weapons.

It is hard to forget where they are, sitting on the precipice of imminent battle. The Major General's quarters were never without a light these past few nights, Captains rushing in and out at any given hour. It made for restless sleep for many a soldier, Brittany included. She could hear the fears of her fellow company-men, whispered to their tent mates at night. And while she herself was alone in her own tent (the product of one too many pranks and weary tentmates) she too huddled down in her bedroll, praying that all would be well. She wasn't to fight like the other men, an order Burt had seen to arrange himself. But she worries nonetheless.

One need only glance at the rifles and muskets resting against the soldiers' tents, gleaming in the light of the fires, to know the truth. They have all been lucky thus far.

It is only a matter of time before the regiment is sent to face the coming Southern army.

And the question on every man's mind tonight; _when?_

Brittany's mind churns further though.

_Who would be sent to the front of the lines? Could another cannon misfire? How many horses would survive? Soldiers? Brothers, fathers, sons? Who would try and save them? Would Santana follow her father onto the battlefield?_

_Would she return?_

The very thought stills Brittany's heart, her body suddenly overcome with a suffocating chill. Santana is strong. Surely, one of the strongest people Brittany feels she's ever had the pleasure to know. But even Santana cannot stop a bullet, a cannon or the bayonet of a Southerner from ending her life in the mere blink of an eye. It is a frightening possibility, one that drains the color from Brittany's face as she quickens her pace. _I just need to see her_ , she tells herself. She needs to know that Santana is all right.

Brittany nearly smacks into her as she rounds the artillery tent, lost in her tumultuous thoughts. Her breath catches as realizes who she's nearly knocked aside. Santana is quick to regain her balance, a small journal hugged to her chest, cheeks flushed a deep red. A smile comes to her lips when her dark eyes finally meet Brittany's.

"Found you," Santana says, grinning cheekily. Though her smile falters, concern creasing her brow. She's never seen Brittany so… distraught. It's a troubling change. "Are you all right?"

Brittany just wants to hug her but nods instead, stuffing her hands deep into her coat pockets.

Santana raises a brow at the move but carries on anyway. "This is for you," Santana hands Brittany the journal as she plucks a pen from where it was tucked behind her ear.

Brittany's entire demeanor shifts, gone the paleness as air rushes deep into her lungs, life returning to her features. She smiles, accepting the gift graciously. "Thank you, Santana!"

Santana shrugs, blushing. "It's for practice. Look, I started for you."

Brittany opens to the first page, beaming as she looks down at Santana's drawing. "That's a nice circle."

Santana's lips purse with a bit of embarrassment. "It's supposed to be an apple…"

"Oh," Brittany's cheeks flush and she smiles shyly. "Well it's still a nice circle anyway."

Santana shifts on her feet, willing down the fluttering sensation in her stomach. She clears her throat and points to another of her drawings in the book. "What does that thing below it look like?"

Brittany titles her head, squinting.

Santana finds it slightly adorable and berates herself in kind.

"A roof?" Brittany guesses.

"I was trying for ladders but a roof works," Santana says chuckling as she traces over the shape, forming an 'A'. "It makes the letter 'A', and the apple makes one too, though lowercase."

Brittany still squints down in question at the drawings. She's seen the alphabet on countless occasions. Been humiliated trying to recite it, and more so shamed trying to remember it for her father. The start of it was simple enough though, and of the bits she's retained 'A' is definitely one of them. Santana's circl- _apple_ is wrong, missing a vital part of itself. When she sees it in her mind, she grins. "Oh! You forgot the stem, silly." Brittany giggles, taking Santana's pen and doodling in a small branch and leaf atop Santana's drawing.

"I'm not the artist here, remember?" Santana says between a giggle. "Turn the page."

Brittany beams. "A bumble bee!"

Santana smiles, proudly, despite herself. "I spent a long time on him."

"What's his name?"

"Burt, actually. See his wings, they make the letter 'B', buh."

"He's precious. Buh-buh-Burt."

Santana can't stop smiling. _It's working!_ she exclaims to herself. She looks up at the taller woman as Brittany absorbs the page below. "What does 'A' sound like?"

Without hesitation Brittany responds, "Ah."

"B?" Santana asks.

"Buh," Brittany tells her. Her head snaps up suddenly, a laugh bubbling from deep inside her. She turns to Santana, excitement dancing in her eyes. "Santana, I _remembered_."

"I know," Santana grins. She nods down to the journal. "Next page."

Brittany is quick to flip to the next section, practically bouncing on her feet as she laughs again. "That's a funny looking cat, San."

The nickname makes her feel warm. Good. She hides her smile, shrugging instead as she waves her hand. "If you want to draw him better, be my guest."

"No, I like yours," Brittany admits. "He's fat like Tubbington. What sound does a 'C' make?"

"You know, you already said it."

"...Cuh?"

Santana catches herself before her hand can make it all the way to Brittany's shoulder. "Excellent, Britt," she offers instead.

"I like it when you call me Britt," Brittany confesses, meeting Santana's gaze. She smiles. "Makes me feel like I'm home."

"Yes, well…" Santana trails off, the warmth from before increasing tenfold, her dress suddenly feeling too tight. Her body to close to Brittany's. She slides back some, away from the other woman, tongue still tied as her eyes turn down to Brittany's journal. "Um, you—"

Before Santana can manage to collect her thoughts Brittany's arms wrap tightly around her. She stiffens in the hold, breath caught in her throat. She can feel more than hear Brittany let out a soft giggle as she hugs her close.

"Thank you, Santana," Brittany whispers. "For everything, thank you."

Brittany's arms have barely started to pull back when Santana feels herself finally relaxing in the embrace. Her eyes reopen, mind quick to wonder when she'd ever closed them. She exhales long and slow as Brittany finally takes a step back. Over the tall shoulder she spots her father exiting their tent. She's quick to put distance between Brittany and herself, a stab of remorse striking her heart at the hurt look crossing Brittany's face. But she hasn't the nerve to apologize, not with her father's eyes boring so heatedly into her own. She casts her gaze down as he makes his way over.

"Santana," he hisses between clenched teeth. " _A word_."

Santana glances to Brittany, relieved to find the blue eyes so understanding. With a nod Brittany reluctantly takes her leave. Santana watches her for a moment, waiting. She can feel her father growing impatient behind her but she refuses for Brittany to have to bear witness to what she knows is to come next. The blonde has barely made it to the next row when Santana feels her father's hand roughly take hold of her arm, pulling her back toward the tent. She grimaces under his grasp, allowing him to drag her back toward the tent. Once she's sure Brittany is a safe distance away she turns, walking in step beside her father. She holds her posture tight, expression conveying nothing but the respect she feels he deserves so little of.

With a shove she's pushed inside through the tent flap.

"Where _is it_?" he demands, voice layered with unspoken blame. Santana stands her ground, evenly meeting his fury-filled eyes. He pulls a small wallet from his coat, tossing it to Santana's feet. She swallows the fear rising in her throat, willing herself not to show even a flinch of recognition. Dr. Lopez advances, grabbing her roughly by the arms. " _I know you took it_!"

"I haven't touched your money," Santana replies calmly, her eyes crinkling in disgust as she tells him, "Though I wouldn't be surprised if one of the whores you so readily invite here has pilfered it."

His eyes flash, hand rising to strike. Santana holds her breath, jaw held tight as she awaits the inevitable hit. He breathes hard in front of her, eyes narrowed with doubt as he stares into his daughter's defiant gaze. " _Liar_ ," he snarls, shoving her away. "And if you so much as breathe a word of this to your mother—"

"I'm aware," Santana snaps, brushing the feeling of his hands from her arms. "You needn't worry anyway. She hasn't written a word to me since we've been here."

Dr. Lopez snorts. "Were you expecting a letter?" he teases, collecting the money pouch from the floor and placing it back inside his coat. He laughs at her; the sound rings loud and biting in her ears. "How superfluous, Santana. Why would she write you? You are in my care."

"Your _care_?" she balks, astonished. She has the fortitude not to let out the laugh she feels wishing to harshly escape her throat. Nor the tears starting to build in the corner of her eyes. "I am not in your _care_ ," she spits the word out, the disdain for her father overwhelming. She cannot stop herself, not after so many years of standing in silence. "That would constitute a _fondness_ on your part. Something we are both aware you've _never_ held for me. So no, this is not your care. I am merely in your _service_."

Dr. Lopez says nothing for a moment, simply staring at Santana with an expression upon his face she cannot read. She's lost count of the number of times she's been face to face with her father like this. By now the back of his hand should have left mark upon her face. But something about this moment resonates of finality. The last remnants of the tie they share is vanishing, blood forgotten. Nothing remains but a shared name. It holds so little meaning to Santana anymore.

The lamp hung on the center support flickers, the flames reflecting in his dark eyes. Santana feels herself burning under his gaze; under all the years of his poorly repressed animosity, and her poorly repressed tongue in resistance to it. His lip starts to curl slightly upward in a look that can only be attributed to one sentiment. Hatred. She fears him disowning her, right here and now in this very tent. It would be so easy, and so clearly what he desires. She hates the ragged breath her lungs draw, her once unfailing demeanor shattering at the display of weakness.

Her lips purse quickly, eyes cast down to hide the tears collecting along her lashes. _Not yet_ , she wills herself. _You will not cry in front of him._

His next words surprise her, even if his tone does not.

"Where is the money?" he asks, voice strained with impatience. Her head snaps up, a sharp intake of breath pulled deep into her chest. This was not the course the night was to take. He should have thrown her out the tent by now, out of his life as he's always wanted. Instead he stands, staring at her as if she's nothing more than a petulant child, his foot tapping a quick succession of beats against the dirt floor. "Answer me!"

She startles, taking a step back in shock at his sudden command. Her voice feels lost within her dry throat, her reply unable to be heard. She steels her nerves, fists clenched tightly by her sides as she finds her voice, and utters breathlessly, "I don't know."

He advances on her in an instant and lands a hard smack against her cheek. Santana grips hard to her dress to keep from raising a hand to the painful sting along her face. With renewed bitterness she asks, "Haven't you enough greenbacks?"

"I worked hard for that pay," he tells her. "It is _mine_ with which to do as I see fit for this family."

Santana can take no more of this, finally dissolving into laughter as her father merely rolls his eyes in indifference. "For this family?" she motions between them. "This is hardly a what I'd call a _family_. No, _papa_ , this is an autocracy. And what you mean to say is that you need the money in order to send home to mother more jewels with which to soften the blow of your infidelities lest you have a revolt on your—"

The second slap is harder than the first. Crueler. Santana can feel her father's wedding band, mockingly drag across her skin, as she is thrown off her feet and into the desk behind her. She reaches out blindly, desperate to catch herself before she can tumble to the floor. Her hand catches upon the extinguished lamp on the desk, the oil quick to spill and her grip failing with it. The glass shatters, her palm sliced open. She lets out a gasp at the pain, her body finally coming to a halt as she collides with the floor and the back of her head smacks against the table leg. Her breaths are nothing but short pants as she clutches her injured hand to her chest, her eyes focused in a rage up at where her father remains standing.

"Clean this mess," he mutters, refusing to meet her eyes. His next words sting more than the deep cut along her palm. "The next caravan should be here soon. Ensure that you do not miss it."

He leaves the tent, steps heavy as he storms out. Leaves his daughter sitting sprawled on the floor, oil dripping down upon her shoulder, her tears falling silently down her face. Santana feels numb as she listens to his steps echo into the night. Her hand barely hurts as she stands to shaky legs, cheeks wet. _It doesn't matter_ , she thinks. She lets her instincts take over, her motions involuntary as she pulls out from beneath her cot the small medical kit she'd made on her first day at the camp. A brief smile passes over her lips as she thinks of Brittany.

So it seems tools belong under the bed after all.

The thought barely passes her mind when a sob chokes its way out. She breaks down.

She intends to see to her wound, but can't seem to muster the strength to do any more than sit upon her cot, crying pathetically for the father who will never respect let alone love her. She despises herself. Despises every sniffle her body takes. _You're weak_. Every tear escaping her eyes. _Worthless_. Every frantic pump of her heart. _Nothing..._

The kit rests in her lap, forgotten. Her blood leaks slowly from the gash and spills onto the box, staining the wood a dark red. She doesn't care.

"San?" a small, familiar voice calls from the tent entrance, timid and worried. Santana sniffles, hurrying to wipe the remnants of tears from her eyes as Brittany peeks her head inside, eyes widening at the broken glass littered across the floor. Brittany lets out a gasp, quickly entering as she immediately seeks Santana. Again the blue eyes widen, growing darker as she rushes to the crying woman's side. Her hands are quick to find Santana's as she kneels beside the cot. Brittany's expression drops, brow furrowing further as she pulls her fingers away to find them covered with blood. "Goodness! You're hurt…"

 _Obviously, you idiot_! Santana wants to scream at her, her temper rising as Brittany tries reaching for her hands again. She takes a deep breath as she slides further from Brittany, ripping the top of the medical kit off as she digs inside for the bandages and ointment she needs.

"No," Brittany says, scooting closer as she takes the bandages from Santana's trembling hands. "Let me," she tells her, ignoring the look of vexation in the dark eyes above her. She simply gives Santana a soft smile as she gently turns her palm over to inspect the damage wrought by the glass. She hisses as her eyes rake over the wound. The cut is deep, slicing clear across Santana's hand. Brittany has an inkling of what happened. She tried so hard to keep walking but something inside her kept screaming for her to turn back. And when she did make it back to the tent, only to hear raised voices and hurtful words, Brittany knew she had been right to return.

She hadn't expected this to happen though.

She wishes she'd come in sooner. Santana wouldn't have been hurt.

"I'm sorry," she whispers as she uses a spare rag inside the box to wipe the blood gently from Santana's palm.

Santana lets out a sigh, her anger quickly subsiding as Brittany tends so gently to her. "This isn't your fault," she tells her, voice hoarse.

But Brittany knows otherwise, shaking her head as she says. "You sent the money to Pa."

Santana sputters, "H-how'd you know?"

A small, guilty smile forms over Brittany's lips as she wraps the bandage around Santana's hand. "Mister Hummel told me."

Santana growls. "He shouldn't ha—"

"You didn't have to steal for me," Brittany interrupts, finishing the last of Santana's wrap.

"I wanted to," it's spoken with such conviction Brittany is taken aback. "Your sister needs it more. I'd do it again."

"You're a good friend," Brittany tells her softly, rolling up onto her knees, eyes now level with Santana's own. "Thank you."

For a moment, neither moves. Gazes lock. Santana can feel Brittany's hand burning against her knee.

She shoots up from the cot not a second later. "He's sending me home," she tells Brittany as she makes her way over to the broken lamp.

"You can't go," Brittany says, standing as well.

As Santana collects the shattered pieces into a discarded box near the table she asks, "What choice do I have?"

"To _stay_."

Santana sighs. "He won't allow it."

"Change his mind," Brittany comes up beside her, helping to collect some of the sharper pieces.

"Oh yes, so I can end up with my other hand equally maimed?" Santana rolls her eyes. "Some help I'd be then."

"Then I'll say something—"

"No!" Santana interrupts, reaching to halt Brittany before she can take one more step toward the entrance. Her heart hammers against her chest painfully as she shakes her head, "No, don't. I can't bear the thought of him hurting you as well."

"San..." Brittany frowns.

Santana releases her, turning back to the mess. "When does the next supply caravan arrive?"

"A fortnight, maybe less," Brittany answers. Santana dumps the box to the floor, the metal and glass clattering loudly in the tent. A small mirror hangs just over the desk. Santana catches her reflection; a mere shadow of herself seems to stare back at her, eyes vacant and dark. She can see Brittany from the corner of her eyes, watching her curiously, concerned. Her cap is askew, a few sections of blonde hair resting against a long neck.

Santana's eyes dart down to the table. Her father's grooming kit is still open along the tabletop.

She reaches for the scissors.

"Santana," Brittany calls for her, worry creasing her brow as she asks, "what are you doing?"

"You had the right idea all along, Brittany," Santana says, gathering her long hair over her shoulder. "If he wants a son, then I'll give him a son."

"No!" Brittany surges forward, prying the scissors from Santana's grip. "Stop, Santana, stop it!"

"It's either this or leave!"

"You're better than any son he could have ever had!" Brittany exclaims, finally able to tear the scissors away. She tosses them into the empty trough and turns back to Santana, willing for the distraught woman to understand. It pains her to see Santana so heartbroken. And what more she knows the other woman would never admit as much. Brittany rests a grounding hand on Santana's shoulder, smiling softly as she tells her, "Turning yourself into a man like me won't change how he sees you."

Santana bows her head, tired. "He'll never respect me..."

"He's not a good father if he doesn't already."

She groans. "I hate the way he makes me feel so… so impotent."

Brittany stares back at her, uncomprehending.

Santana lets out a sigh, "Weak, Britt, he makes me feel weak."

"Impossible. You're one of the strongest people I know."

She wants to believe Brittany. So much wants to believe in her promising words. _I trust you_ , echoes in Santana's mind. But the pain in her heart is still so fresh, the blood upon her hands still wet. She can't believe. Not yet.

And then Brittany says something Santana doesn't expect. Something she holds close to her heart the moment it's uttered.

"I think… instead of doing all this for him, you should do it for you."

And because it's the smartest thing anyone has ever conveyed to her, and spoken with such unfailing honesty, Santana smiles shakily up at Brittany. It's not a perfect solution, and hell it's barely a possibility at that. But someone believes in her. Someone trusts her. It's more than Santana's ever been given before. And from someone with only the best of intentions. From Brittany. From goodness. With her heart feeling just a little less bleak she tells her, with utmost truth, "Has anyone ever told you that you're a genius, Brittany Pierce?"


	5. At a Precipice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Just wanted to add a note here with the song info for this chapter. _Long, Long Ago_ was composed by Thomas Haynes Bayly way back in 1833. It was muy, muy popular... 10 years later haha.

Santana is regarding Brittany from a far, _safe_ distance. Or at least to her it is, anyway. An entire field seems reasonable enough space. Two fields would have perhaps been better. Regardless, it certainly helps to ease the tightness she feels in her chest whenever Brittany draws too near. Santana can't explain the sensation; she equates it to what she imagines a palpitation irregularity must feel like in the heart of a distressed, and typically much older, patient. She's not old, nor is she suffering from immense and irreversible anxiety. A bit of stress is a given, yes, but _this_ …. this is unexplainable.

_Brittany is just…_

Santana lets out an exasperated groan at the lack of thought that transpires after. And frankly she grows concerned at its absence. Words come easy to her. They are her fire with which to repel the world and those unfit to inhabit it. Yet for people like Brittany, for those she doesn't quite mind sharing this miserable world with, she's not a single complete thought in her mind.

Because she's not entirely sure _what_ this is that's stirring within her. It's welcome and repellent. Confusing and yet so simple. It is just…

_Brittany._

Thinking of the woman sends her back to the previous night. Everything is still sharp in her mind. Every angry word spat by her father rings harshly in her ears whilst every word of kindness whispered by Brittany feels imprinted upon her heart. She rolls her eyes at the sentiments spinning in her mind. _Imprinted on your heart? Really?_ _Who_ are _you?_ Santana Lopez does not dwell upon the actions of others. Does not sit here, stalking them from a distance. She is merely observing, she tells herself. Curiosity is a natural thing and she needs answers. Brittany Pierce simply cannot be so… so wonderful.

Santana sighs, resting her chin atop her upturned palm.

_She is wonderful though_ , she thinks. _And good, and sweet and_ —

She stalls her rambles, wincing as she thinks of how easy it is to let her guard down around the other woman, to accept her help last night. _Do it for you,_ Brittany told her then. How easy it was to believe in that conviction when she was with Brittany. It was a beautiful thought, but impractical. She's being sent home, there is no changing her father's mind on that matter.

Her hand throbs, the cut beneath her fresh bandages burning at the mere thought. Santana flexes her fingers, willing the pain to subside and the prickles along her skin to quell. She wishes it'd been her right hand that had befallen such an unfortunate fate. She favored her left. And no matter the drastic attempts of both her parents to force her to adapt to the other she always would revert back to what was natural.

Santana feels the same could be said for her rapport with Brittany. The moment she finds herself in the presence of the other woman it's as if all these meticulously built pretenses within her are lost. _Easily_. One smile from the blonde and Santana can't help but revert to the part of herself even she is surprised to know exists.

It scares her; how natural that part of her feels.

With her right hand she spoons up a bit of her cornmeal and takes a bite, tongue accustomed, yet objected, to the rough and bland taste. As she slowly chews she watches Brittany's company carry out their morning drills. Even from afar Santana can still spot the leggy blonde amidst the other men. She keeps in step, blends in with the best of them. She wonders how long they've been out there, running through the fields. Far before she ever sat down to eat her breakfast, that's for sure. It looks like grueling work. She feels stressed just watching them.

_As if I could be any more stressed,_ she groans to herself.

Today started long before dawn broke across the camp. She was stirred from sleep even before the embers of the camp fires could fully burn out. Captain Briggs had suffered a seizure of sorts. It was over by the time they arrived in his quarters, the Captain short of breath but sitting upon his cot with one hand clutched tightly over his chest. He'd told them he was fine, swatting Dr. Lopez away when the man tried to inspect his eyes. Awaiting instruction, Santana observed from a few paces away. Captain Briggs had obviously not been getting much sleep recently. Large bags hung below his eyes, beard scraggy and skin limp in places it was otherwise usually taut. His hands were trembling, the quivers subtle but noticeable. He was fighting to keep them under control. The power of his strength evident in the contrast of white splashed across his knuckles. It was a familiar type of pain expressed on his features. Something he's had to endure before.

And something Santana believed he had done well to keep hidden for so long.

If her father were to diagnose him correctly it would only be a matter of hours before Captain Briggs was relieved of his position and sent to the nearest hospital. Epilepsy had the stigma of being considered irrevocably contagious. No matter how minor the case. Once diagnosed one was shipped off and promptly forgotten. Of what Santana's studied of the few patients her father had sent to such fates she thinks it was wrong of him to do so. They were mentally sound, perfectly healthy in all aspects of their life aside from this one thing it seemed they simply could not control. There were a few surgeons she's read of in Britain, trying to better understand this phenomenon. Of what she could recall it was a neural disorder, not something to be feared. Incurable but not spreadable. Often times debilitating but in Captain Briggs case, manageable. He had obviously lived well even given his disorder. She believed it was triggered by his sleep deprivation. He couldn't be blamed for the stress everyone was feeling.

"It's nothing," Captain Briggs grumbled when Dr. Lopez wished to examine him further. "Merely the worries of a captain for his ill prepared men. They aren't ready and we'll be called to arms by the weeks end, I promise you that! It's preposterous!"

_Weeks end?_ Santana repeated in her head, eyes wide.

"Settle down," Dr. Lopez commanded, though Santana noted, with an air of resigned respect. "Your worries are doing nothing for their confidence."

The captain glared up at Dr. Lopez. "I don't worry _before them_. You think me stupid, doctor?"

"No, captain," Dr. Lopez replied as he stood back to his feet again. "I think you stressed."

Santana breathed a sigh of relief at his words. It seemed even her father realized the importance of keeping the Captain in his post. Release an infantry of their leader and the chaos that was so feared would surely descend upon the men. And in its wake; the beds of the medical tent would fill.

She could see her father shuddering at the thought of such a disastrous end.

Dr. Lopez tossed Captain Briggs one of the bottles of whiskey lying on his desk.

"No better way to get you rest then to down some good spirit," he explained as the Captain gave him a quizzical look.

"I'm not a drunkard, _doctor_ ," Captain Briggs barked.

"Consider it a prescription than," Dr. Lopez said with a shrug. "Until my supplies arrive this is all I can offer you."

They left shortly thereafter, her father not once speaking a word to her the entirety of the visit. She preferred his bitterness, she thought as they settled back down into their cots for the night. His silent indifference, nay his outright _disregard of her entire existence,_ was not only petty, it hurt. She was nothing to him. Officially.

There was but one person in her life that's yet to disappoint.

The longer she watches her now the more Santana finds herself looking forward to their lessons tonight.

And it's only once she's finished her breakfast that she realizes she's been using her left hand for quite some time as well.

* * *

All day Brittany has been rushing messages, maps and instruments she's never seen let alone heard the name of till today, back and forth across camp. She's finally beginning to feel a bit exhausted by all the sprints she's pulled in the past two hours alone. Something is going on, serious enough to pull her away from her duties with Burt. She wishes to know what it could be but at the moment a message is handed over the flap to the tent she waits outside of is closed and she's sent on her way again. It worries her, what could have happened, or _will_ happen, that has all the Captains and Colonels rushing to and from Major General Buell's tent.

Whatever it is can't bear very good news for the regiment.

Nor for the men, some of which she's come to consider her friends. Finn, Sam and Noah are sure to be on the lines. They hardly seem ready for war. They hardly seem ready for life if she truly is honest. Good music, good company, and good women. That's what they care to speak of. And at great length, Brittany muses as she recalls the bits of the night spent in their company that she can remember. Of what she does recollect are their songs. All upbeat pieces laced with melancholy lyrics. Nostalgia for home, lament for their futures. An acceptance almost, of what is soon to come. Brittany had danced without care alongside Noah, laughing with them.

She thinks it's how they cope and to her it is a far better way to spend one's time than how her tent neighbors spend their nights. She can always hear them, roused from her sleep late at night as they wretch into the dead grass behind the tents. She's not stupid, she knows they drink their fears away until all that's left is a numbed pain that even their bodies cannot sustain. Hearing them, so hopeless, she whispers a prayer for their strength.

She whispers one now as she jogs back down the main path, hoping her mother can hear her breathless words. A prayer to keep as many men safe as she can. To give them courage. She runs past the medical tent for what feels the hundredth time today and her stomach falls as she thinks of what the news could mean for Santana.

"Bret!" Burt's voice calls for her from down the row. She spots him, hobbling over quickly and she hurries to meet him before he can exert himself further.

"Yes sir?" Brittany asks of him with a respectful tip of her hat. Her cheeks burn when she realizes she's addressed him much the same way she's been addressing so many this afternoon.

"Bret, what have I told you about the formalities?" Burt says with a chuckle.

Brittany gives him an apologetic smile as she tries again, "Yes, Mister Hummel?"

"I know the General has kept you pretty tied this afternoon so I hope you're free for a bit. I've got some great news," Burt tells her as he rests an arm over her shoulders and steers her toward the camp entrance. For a fleeting moment Brittany thinks perhaps her father has come. It elates her, simply imagining his face as she runs into his arms. But the image is quick to dissipate. He'd never come. He'd never risk her safety like that.

"What is it?" she asks, her voice far less enthused than the usual excitement Burt is used to at such a pronouncement.

"Well, nothing to be so sour over that's for sure," he replies, nudging her side as they walk. "The trains arrived in Lexington a few days ago, bet you can guess what was on board."

"Feed!" Brittany exclaims, smile wide. She can't believe their good luck. "Please tell me they've hay?"

"Tons and tons," Burt grins. "The wagons should be pulling up soon, help me to unload?"

"Of course!"

Burt is spot on. Yet Brittany thinks 'tons and tons' of hay doesn't even seem to cover it. At least a dozen wagons pull up to the camp containing feed for the horses alone. The cavalry soldiers are beyond ecstatic, some even clapping Brittany over the shoulder in glee as they scoop some of the fresh hay into their hands and feed it to their eager horses. Brittany is thrilled, watching the teams as they pull cartloads of feed away and back toward the cavalry barracks. Even as she forks more of the hay down into awaiting soldier carts she can see more wagons heading down the road.

Boots, coats, rations, muskets, you name it. The shipment couldn't have arrived at a better time.

Except for perhaps one member of the regiment. And as Brittany thinks what the caravan's arrival could mean for Santana, her stomach sinks for the second time today.

The moment Santana hears the shouts from outside the medical tent she knows. Her father never says a word, merely stares expectantly at her whilst a soldier runs in to relay the news of the caravan to him. As the soldier leaves Santana remains standing, meeting his gaze evenly. Dr. Lopez's eyes narrow into her own and she swallows down her nerves as he strides over.

"I believe you know what need happen now," he says to her, voice devoid of any inclination of emotion.

Santana wills her heart to stop beating such a painful rhythm against her ribs. With as much strength as she can muster to her voice, she tells him, "I'm not leaving."

One brow rises along his forehead. "Are you questioning my decision?"

Santana holds her position, even as he takes another step toward her. "This isn't your decision to make. As an adult I am free from your will. If you force me to _desert_ my post it will reflect badly upon you and I'm sure the General would be none to pleased to hear of you disservicing his regiment."

When her father takes the final step Santana holds out a hand, pressing it straight over his chest. He looks surprised by the move, eyes darkening as Santana gives him a gentle push back.

" _I'm not leaving_ ," she hisses at him. "You need me even though you're too proud to admit so."

Dr. Lopez chuckles, it's a deep, stabbing sound and does nothing to quell the heated blood rushing painfully through Santana's heart. " _I don't need you_."

"Maybe not," Santana counters, expression hard as her eyes dart to the few patients sitting nearby. "But you can't deny that _they_ do."

Dr. Lopez says nothing for a moment, merely staring down at his daughter, willing her to break as she did the night before. But he sees nothing of her earlier fear reflected back in those brown eyes, eyes so similar to his own he forgets sometimes just how much alike they truly are. He'd never admit it, let alone give her the satisfaction of knowing he ever thinks of her in such regard. She's been nothing but a thorn in his side since the moment she was brought into this world and the midwife had told him his wife would never bear him another child. He'd never get the son he wanted. _Needed_ to succeed him. Everything he's built for this family was so that his son could see to it the name carried on; that the worth of his life was not lost.

And yet there he was, holding that little girl instead, all his hopes dashed in favor of a future filled with dresses and mindless frivolity. A daughter who could never amount to anything aside from being the wife to a wealthy man, and that was only if he was lucky. He could not dote upon her, not give her the life she'd stolen from his would-be son. She was his wife's to deal with; from that day on he wanted nothing to do with her.

As he looks down at that girl now, he thinks how wrong he was. Santana was never one for fawning over the frivolities in life. He is stuck, stuck with a daughter who seldom listened and seldom yet held her tongue. Who challenged him whenever she felt he'd overlooked something he hadn't the patience to think further upon. Who kept him in business with the kindness bestowed toward his patients as they parted.

She is so much like him. What more, she is the absolute best of him. And that is what pains Albert Lopez most.

His daughter is everything he could hope for in a son, _more_.

And for that, he can never forgive her.

"Dr. Lopez?" she ventures, voice still hardened yet the bitterness evidently subdued. He nearly flinches at the honorific she uses. He's forgotten the last time she ever deemed to call him her father, and not in mockery. _No matter_ , he thinks. She's merely giving him what he wants. For now he will relent.

_She'll break soon enough._

"Stay if you must," he says, brushing roughly past her. He collects a few empty boxes from the floor, tossing them into her chest as he adds, "Besides, your mother would castrate me if I let you leave on your own. Go see to it the supplies arrived safely. Surely even you are capable of such a menial task."

Santana can hardly contain the prideful grin that wishes to pull across her face. Instead she musters her most stoic expression as she arranges the boxes in her arms and gives her father a curt nod.

When Brittany catches sight of Santana, standing beside a few nurses as they unload the wagon filled with their much-needed medical supplies, she can't help the way her heart fills with delight. She's never seen Santana look so pleased, so _relieved_. She isn't being sent home. It is only natural then that as Santana turns, arms full, that her gaze comes across that of Brittany's. They share a smile; Brittany's bright and overjoyed, Santana's demure and grateful. Yet their eyes reflect the warmth each feels wrapping about their hearts.

_We'll be all right_ , they each think, hoping the other can somehow hear their silent wishes.

* * *

Santana sits at the table just outside the medical tent; a few oil lamps in need of more fuel flicker meager light down upon her from the entrance posts. They have enough, she knows, more than enough after the shipment arrived earlier this afternoon. But she's too engrossed in her reading to get up and fetch some more. Ever since her earlier lesson with Brittany ended (the blonde called away on errand) she's been perched upon this bench, nose absorbed in the new edition journals she pulled from her father's delivery. He'd skimmed them of course, as he always did. She was thankful there wasn't a hearth in their tent otherwise she's sure he would have tossed them to the hungry flames once he'd finished. She'd exhausted every book she and her father had brought, along with a few others she was able to borrow from the nurse aides in search of an answer to Emily's plight.

She's already come to the conclusion it must be Tuberculosis— consumption as it was still known to most. Her symptoms are quite in line with the progression of the disease. For every patient her father has ever diagnosed the treatment was always the same. Be sent to the local sanatorium and pray to god you were lucky enough to live. Santana is sure Lima has no such facilities, and with winter fast approaching moving Emily at all would prove a fatal mistake. She hopes she can pull some new knowledge from one of the journals, but thus far they all read the same. She feels so long as Emily is stable then the case has not progressed to the more rapid, detrimental strain of the disease. The one sure to bring pneumonia quickest and thus death swiftly thereafter.

The best she could do was to be sure Mr. Pierce was well acquainted with what is ailing his daughter. And that he is smart enough not to enter her presence without use of a mask. As she writes such in a letter she makes sure to slip a few extra masks into the envelope for him.

She wonders with a heavy heart how she'll ever tell Brittany.

Santana is beginning to fold the letter when she gives a yelp as a pair of warm hands clasp over her eyes and even warmer breath brushes against her ear.

"Found you," Brittany giggles softly.

"Dios mio! _Brittany_!" Santana breathes, clutching her dress above her heart in a futile attempt to cease its rapid beats. Brittany slips into the spot beside her, arms folded across the table as she smiles over at Santana. Santana regains her composure, stuffing the envelope into a book as she tilts her head with a squint over at her intruder. "Come to frighten me or is there a purpose to your teasing?"

Brittany smiles and Santana feels herself relaxing under the tender gaze. "Come dance with me," Brittany requests, holding her hand palm-up toward Santana upon the table.

Santana blushes, eyes cast down to the books scattered across the tabletop. "I can't, I really must—"

"If I were to tell you tonight was our last night to live," Brittany interrupts, yet quietly so. Something about her voice pulls Santana's attention up, eyes locked with the shinning blue pair in front of her. Brittany slides closer, hand just brushing against Santana's own as she asks. "Would you dance with me then?"

Santana wants to shake her head, to tell Brittany how frivolous it'd be to dance with her when she has so much she needs to tell her instead. And what of tomorrow? She needs to be well versed in the newest nurse pamphlet that had come, even if everything it contained was laughably antiquated. The nurses will need to know otherwise, be taught differently. Better methods. Cleaner. Safer. Who knows what will face them tomorrow if they are not prepared, or the next day for that matter. _Called to arms by weeks end!_ She needs to be at her best, needs to be ready to do this on her own, for the first time without fear of her father's wrath.

Just as Santana begins to collect the words of her protest upon her tongue Burt's voice fills her head. _Enjoy it while you can, Miss Santana. The peace won't last for much longer._

Brittany's smile doesn't wane as Santana sits, still and thoughtful staring back at her.

After what feels a small eternity Santana licks her lips, shrugging as she tells Brittany, "I suppose one or two dances wouldn- _Brittany_!" She squeals as the taller woman gives a joyful holler and pulls both of them up to their feet

"Come on! The boys have already started!" Brittany tells her, hand clasped with Santana's as she pulls the other woman gently down the row. Santana stumbles a bit, Brittany quick to steady her as they fall into step beside one another. Santana looks up at Brittany, the blonde smiling down at her as she says, "you'll love dancing with me."

Santana laughs. "So sure of yourself, are you?"

"I am," Brittany tells her and Santana is amused to note, it is an honest admission.

"Well, well, if it isn't Miss Santana, the frigid queen herself, come to grace us with her wintery presence," Puckerman announces as the two women finally make it over to the boys' fire. Finn scoots down on his log, patting the space beside him as he grins shyly up at Santana.

"No thank you," she says, nose scrunched as she eyes the log with distaste. "I'd rather sit in the dirt than share that twiggy stick of a seat with you."

"San," Brittany admonishes softly. "Be nice."

Santana bristles at the appeal, but relents, giving a huff as she perches herself as far from Finn on the short log as she can.

"I'm Finn Hudson," he says warmly, extending a hand in greeting.

"I'm aware," Santana nods, purposely ignoring his offering of peace because, "You were in my tent three weeks ago. Bee sting on your hind if I do recall."

Finn's face turns redder than the embers in the fire, if possible. "N-no," he sputters, laughing nervously. "Must have been some other Finn Hudson."

" _No_ ," Santana corrects him, smirking as she tells him, "I think I know a giant oaf when I see one. And certainly when they're turning the same color now as they did then."

"A song!" Finn declares, springing to his feet. "How about that song Evans, eh? Yeah? The one you were _itching_ to play? How about that one?"

"About the bumble bees, right Finn?" Sam asks, trying to mask a chuckle with an ill-timed cough.

"Ah, give him a break," Puckerman says with a wave of his hand. "Miss Santana is just pulling your leg Finn, she doesn't care one bit about seeing your naked ass."

"I can confirm this," Santana agrees.

"I'd like to hear the song," Brittany supplies, hoping to steer the evening back on course and alleviate some of Finn's obvious embarrassment. She gives Santana a look, one Santana can only equate to what Brittany must throw at Tubbington when he's being a naughty kitty. It makes her feel a bit childish now and she sits straighter upon the pathetic log, giving Brittany a smile, showing her just how well she can get along with these ridiculous boys.

"Anyway," Sam says. "I'm Sam Evans, and we're happy to have you join us tonight, Miss Santana. If there's one thing we've been missing since comin' out to Mackville it's the company of a sophisticated lady."

Santana thinks Sam isn't half bad as she gives him an appreciative nod of her head.

"This one here won't shut up about 'cha." Finn smirks as he gives Puckerman a friendly shove.

Puckerman glares at Finn for a moment before turning his usual suave expression Santana's way. "Only the best of things I assure you. You are, after all, the finest woman in this regiment. And I _know_ my fine women."

Santana rolls her eyes, speech already spilling from her mouth before she can even hope to stop herself. "There's only five of us Puckerman," she begins, counting the numbers off upon her raised hand. "Myself, two nuns, the fourth suffers an unfortunate face pox and the fifth of which I believe has just ducked into your neighbor's tent for what I assume shall be some mutual horizontal refreshment and not to end in some type of monetary exchange. So really, your flattery does nothing to entice you in my minds eyes, as really there is no comparison to be had and therefore just your desperate attempts to _yet again_ woo me into some type of pining stupor. Which, as you are well aware by now, shall never happen lest I am lobotomized and therefore incapable of relieving myself let alone retaining conscious thought. And as the _finest woman in this regiment_ I must really ask that you cease giving me such easy circumstances with which to ridicule you because as much as I enjoy degrading you and bringing you down to the lowliest of the masculine tribe it's not only embarrassing to you it's also upsetting to Bret. And frankly, not worth it."

Brittany gives a sigh once Santana's finished. The rest of the boys, save for Puckerman, stare, astounded at her.

Puckerman groans, smirking Santana's way as he gives Sam's shin a soft kick. "Song?" he prods.

"Right!" Sam says, his attention snapping to his violin. As he begins the first few notes to a song, Finn humming along with the tune as his own mind finally shakes free of his stunned state, Brittany extends her hand out to Santana. And this time Santana notes, none to gently.

"That wasn't very nice," Brittany whispers as Santana takes her hand.

"I'll apologize," Santana tells her, allowing Brittany to pull her up to her feet.

"Nicely?" Brittany implores.

"I promise," Santana gives her a smile. It falters and her breath hitches when Brittany rests her second hand unexpectedly on the curve of Santana's waist. It takes Santana a moment to recognize the dance, her eyes rooted down to Brittany's feet as she watches the boots glide in step to the strum of the fiddle. A simple waltz, something even she should be capable of following.

Brittany pulls her a little closer, "Is this all right?" she asks, grinning through her whispered words. Santana looks back up at her, surprised to find all traces of Brittany's disappointment gone, replaced with a look she can't quite recognize.

She nods numbly as Brittany sweeps her around and back in into step, all flourishes of womanly grace supplanted with gentleman charm. Bret Pierce at his finest. She hopes the boys don't notice the blush upon her cheeks, even if Brittany must. If the courier does she says nothing, merely leading them through the dance, a wistful smile upon her face all the way.

Brittany is thoroughly enjoying herself. She knew she would. That was never a question. But to see Santana enjoying this as well? Brittany is beyond elated. She's been hankering to share a dance with Santana for some time now. God knows she's dreamed of this very moment nearly every night since she's met the woman. She always knew Santana would make an excellent dance partner. The best she's ever had the pleasure to share. _And frankly the best lookin' too_. And while she enjoys the time they spend together during her lessons this is something quite different. Not better, no. She cherishes their evenings reading by the firelight. This is different in another way. One she's fairly sure she is beginning to understand and what more, whole-hardheartedly accepts.

Storybooks were never wrong after all.

Though she's starting to think perhaps more than one prince may have been a farm girl in disguise too.

Their cheeks were just too rosy.

And as she pulls Santana closer, the shorter woman's breath hitching once more, Brittany wishes Sam never ceases playing.

She doesn't want to let Santana go.

But time is ever present and the song ends far too soon for both their taste.

Puckerman watches curiously as they come to a stop. He nudges Finn, nodding toward them.

"You're an excellent dancer," Brittany tells Santana as the song fades and Bret gives her bow in thanks. Santana hasn't even realized the music has stopped until the telltale crackle of the fire meets her ears and nothing more. She shakes herself from her daze, cheeks still warm as Puckerman approaches.

"Care enough to allow the lowliest of the masculine tribe a turn?" he asks, a smile and not a smirk for once upon his lips. And she takes his hand, the apology evident in her eyes as she allows him to lead her through the next song.

The hours pass quickly for the group. Time is lost as they indulge in this last stand. By the end of the night, Santana's feet are tired, so she sits on the ground, back resting against the log as she shares a rare bottle of bourbon with Finn. They watch Puckerman and Bret, sweat dripping from their faces, as they dance vigorously on. Eventually Puckerman falls exhausted beside Santana, laughing as he steals the bourbon from her hands and chugs a good portion down his throat.

"Easy now," Sam warns him, snatching the bottle away and hiding it behind his own spot on the ground. The fire is dying, the flames barely licking into the air as he plays a few last notes and declares, "One more song and call it a night?"

"I think Miss Santana should be the one to take us into sleep tonight," Puckerman jests, nudging her shoulder.

She shoves him aside and with a shake of her head tells them, "I think not."

"Everyone else has favored us with a song," Finn points out. He turns to Brittany, disoriented from drink and smirking lazily. "Except for Bret. I still don't know how you can't remember _one_ song."

Brittany shrugs as she plops beside Sam, grinning as she pleads, "Yes, one song San, please?"

Santana squirms under the attention, uncomfortable, head buzzing from the alcohol as she says, "I only know a few."

"Only need one," Sam smiles.

"You mustn't laugh," Santana warns, hugging her legs to her chest. When they all swear she asks Sam, "Do you know 'Long, Long Ago?'"

He doesn't answer, merely striking up the familiar chords that still Santana's heart and bring chills to her skin. She hasn't heard the song in ages, merely recalls it from her childhood. Her parents were never ones to dote upon her let alone sing her a song but this one seemed even their cold hearts could not escape. For an entire summer she could hear them humming it; her mother as she attended to the household chores and her father as he balanced his ledger in his office. She would sit in their front room, singing softly to herself as she fashioned new dresses for her doll. It was the greatest summer of her life.

The closest she's felt her family ever came to happiness. All due to one simple song.

Her eyes meet Brittany's across the fire as she starts to sing, " _Tell me the tales that to me were so dear. Long, long ago. Long, long ago_."

Brittany's only ever heard a few people sing in her life. The first being her mother. She'll never forget her voice. It is so ingrained upon her memory only an act from God himself could pry it from her thoughts. The rest, they were forgotten. A song sung here or there at a local dance, hummed along a street corner. They were fleeting. Easily consigned to oblivion. Listening to Santana now, Brittany thinks it would take more than God to make her ever forget this. Even when Sam joins in, Brittany hears only her. She feels the words being sung as if they were meant for her ears alone. So she listens and watches, spellbound and smitten with the voice of the woman she's sure she feels more toward than she should. But it feels right, the longing in her heart and warmth in her belly.

Santana Lopez is something else, and Brittany Pierce thinks she doesn't quite mind falling for someone so wonderful.

In fact she embraces it.

The last notes of the violin echo into the silence of the camp as the song ends. Puckerman and Finn clap, mindful to keep their enthusiasm at an appropriate level. Sam praises Santana with kind words. She doesn't really hear any of them, not with Brittany staring at her so. She remains, unable to move under the intensity of those piercing blue eyes focused upon her own. She sees in them something that makes her breath still and legs tremble beneath her hold. And just as quickly, Sam claps Brittany on the back, shattering the gaze. Yet the feelings continue to burn deep inside Santana long, long after.

Brittany offers to walk her back to her tent whilst the boys stay to tidy the fire pit. They meander slowly, neither quite wanting to leave the other just yet. Santana wishes to ask what was on the other woman's mind, especially why she stared at her so. But she keeps silent, comfortable in this moment together. Brittany is grateful for it. She's not sure how she would even begin to explain what just passed between them. And especially when every time their hands brush as they walk now, she feels a bit of that spark that coursed through her earlier as they danced.

"Here we are," Santana announces as they stop a few paces from her tent. They can each see the soft glow of a lamp still burning inside, both dreading what Santana's late arrival could mean. "I'll be fine," Santana says before Brittany can even voice her concern. She smiles softly up at Brittany, "go get some sleep."

Brittany is hesitant to leave her, especially when her eyes lock upon the bandages still wrapped around Santana's wounded hand. She gives sigh, "if you're sure."

Santana nods, "I am, but thank you."

"I still want to pay you back, for what you did."

Santana shakes her head. "Consider it a gift, that money is as much his as it is mine. We both earned it and Emily needs it more."

Brittany bites her bottom lip, willing the tears in her eyes not to spill. Santana moves to reach forward, but pulls back, wringing her hands near her waist to keep them from where they desire to be; brushing the tears that now fall down Brittany's cheeks.

"Don't cry," Santana whispers.

"You've done s-so much for me," Brittany tells her, voice hushed yet cracking with emotion. "I've _nothing_ to give you in r-return."

Santana smiles, "you gave me a dance."

Brittany chuckles, wiping the water collecting in her eyes. "It was four, actually."

Santana shakes her head, an amused grin spreading across her face. "Thank you, for the _four_ dances then."

The smile is quickly wiped from her lips as Brittany takes hold of her hand, and in the perfect picture of a gentleman gives a bow and presses a kiss over the back of her bandage. Her blue eyes flicker up, smiling at Santana, "They were my pleasure."

Santana feels a different type of burning sensation bloom down through her palm. And she is unable to regain her wits, simply staring, mouth agape as Brittany stands upright once more.

"Goodnight, San," Brittany tells her as she releases Santana's hand.

The motion snaps Santana back to present; her cheeks flushed a deep red as she stammers out, "G-goodnight, Brittany."

With one more smile exchanged Brittany heads off toward her tent, Santana watching her go until she can't even see her head bobbing along the rows of tents anymore. She enters her tent, unknowingly with a similarly faraway look upon her face.

Dr. Lopez lets out a groan upon seeing it and his daughter acting so… so foolish, he thinks. "Why must you always sneak off with the least suitable suitor here?"

Santana ignores him, shrugging as she plops down upon her cot and settles beneath her blankets. Nothing will take tonight from her, not even his vicious words.

"If you must be seen with anyone at least someone who won't embarrass me further. Even Hudson will suffice."

Santana lets out a scoff that quickly dissolves into chuckles at the thought of Finn Hudson ever being suitable for anyone let alone herself. She's about to reply in kind when shouts are heralded from outside.

Shouts specifically calling for the medic staff.

Panicked.

Dr. Lopez springs up from his chair, grabbing his coat and emergency kit as he dashes out through the tent. Santana sprints out after him, her own kit clutched in her hands. She's not prepared for what meets them as they run toward the ruckus of sound and bright lamps making their way hastily toward the medical tent. A trail of blood follows some men being dragged along the ground, open wounds rendered deep into the flesh of their sides.

"Get them inside!" Dr. Lopez orders, motioning them into the tent as he hurries to aide a man who clutches at his organs to keep them from spilling out of the bloody cavity in his body. Santana can't move as she watches the dozen some men get carried inside, all ashen-face, broken and... and _dying_.

"Why are you standing there?" her father shouts her way. Santana meets his gaze, his usual steely reserve forgotten in place of the frantic alarm that has seized the camp. "Help them!"

She's in motion in an instant. The medical tent is a frenzy of activity as they each tend to separate patients, desperate to keep the men alive. Of what the soldiers able to speak have told them there was some type of ambush near the river. The confederates were close, much closer than even they had imagined. She hurries to stitch a soldier's side, careful of the bullet holes still leaking blood down upon the cot.

"San?" A familiar voice rings through the chaos and Santana's head snaps toward the owner. Her heart beats faster yet as Brittany runs over, blue eyes never once venturing down to the soldier dying below her. "Found you," Brittany manages a smile through the queasiness she feels overwhelming her stomach.

"What is it? Have you news?" Santana asks hurriedly as she refocuses down upon her patient.

"They're sending me out, I haven't much time," Brittany tells her. Santana's heart does more than punch against her chest; it feels as if it's burst at that news. She begins shaking her head even as Brittany rushes to say, "I don't want you to worry for me. I'll be back soon. _I promise_."

And with that Brittany is gone, sprinting back out the tent before Santana can even say a word. She wants to rush after her, scream at her, at whoever has tasked her with this obviously treacherous mission. She's frightened, so much so her hand begins to shake as she tries to thread another stitch through the man's skin. Brittany is never sent out in the middle of the night.

And certainly not on the brink of a battle.


	6. Call to Arms

**October 7th, 1862**

The fight had broken out over water resources. _Water_. Water that has been flowing down the nearby river uninhibited, without fault, for _centuries_. _It is_ _preposterous_ , Santana thinks. Of what she's come to know from the gossip she's overheard the nurses' exchange, Major General Buell was already being pressured to take aggressive action and this only cemented his next move sooner. As of now he is still awaiting orders. Orders Santana is sure Brittany was sent to fetch. What word could she possibly need to deliver when everyone at this camp already knows that battle is imminent?

The terrified look she catches upon the men's faces as she passes says enough.

She also thinks her own expression must appear no different.

Brittany's been gone little over a day yet the despair upon Santana's face would seem as though she's been missing weeks. Her unchecked worries are nearly as preposterous as the water crisis, she thinks. Ill-timed, ill-advised and leaving her erroneously ill-tempered. She was almost consumed by a mild panic earlier just imagining all that could bechance Brittany at that very moment. The nurse on the receiving end of her viciously impatient words nearly dissolved into tears.

It was not a proud moment.

Afterward she tried not dwelling on thoughts of the courier. Still tries, even now. There is so little known about where she's gone and Santana hasn't the chance yet to inquire further. The medical tent has been a flurry of activity since the night previous. The certainty of battle has already driven many men straight into awaiting cots. Fatigue, stress, and bouts of debilitating nausea suddenly rampant. There is a thickness upon the air, a dreadful tension suffocating those in the camp. It's hard to ignore when she too feels it filling her lungs and threatening to render her inept. She is thankful for her pride though; it is physically impossible for it to let her fail. Even now it is as if her body has taken control of itself with her mind in such a frayed disarray of thoughts.

Her father keeps her working straight through meals, the injured soldiers requiring both their undivided attentions. She's averse to think what will happen when instead of a dozen it's near a hundred men who will lie in need of aid in this tent. They'd already lost four of the soldiers during the dawn hours; two more are nearing the brink now. Thankfully the rest are stable for the moment though their outlooks bleak. There is only so far medicine can go. Only so many hands to help. Their regiment has yet to be sent to battle and thus has yet to be assigned more medics.

They need aid.

Santana knows that is soon to change though. And again she must quell the anxiety pooling in her gut at the thought.

Major General Buell already came in to give the boys his regard, face sullen as he thanked them for their bravery. Santana didn't quite understand why they were being thanked for simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but she wasn't in a position to say anything. It was odd enough having such a decorated head stationed in their camp, let alone one who felt the need to interface with his men. She assumes he's been posted here for safety, of all the other camps in the surrounding hills theirs was by far the most secluded. Or was, anyway. Thoughts of the skirmish aside she worried for the injured men, for the facades of strength they put on as they shook their General's hand. The moment he left the groans and cries of their pain were swift to consume them, nurses working hastily to ease them into dreamless slumbers once more.

The tent is quiet now. Unnerving so.

Her dress and apron are smeared with the blood of the men everyone knows won't make it through another night. She feels it, sinking into her skin, embedded beneath her fingernails, begging to addressed. Washed away and forgotten.

Their graves are already being dug out back.

By late evening only two of them remain alive. The stench of death heavy in the air. A fate Brittany too could be facing soon...

Santana can stand it no more.

"I'll be right back," she says hurriedly to the nearest nurse before untying her apron and tossing it to an empty cot nearby. The nurse gives a nod, understanding as Santana rushes out the tent. She draws fresh air deep into her lungs once she's outside, chin turned up to the darkening sky. It's calming and her body unwinds as she slumps against the nearby table. She needs this, she thinks. To just escape for a moment and collect herself. She forces herself not to think, to simply breathe. Be. Once composed, she looks out across the quieted camp. A few soldiers pass, giving her respectful tips of their caps. She recognizes one as Sam. With a raise of her hand she gives him a halfhearted wave. As she does her eyes catch on the bandage still meticulously wrapped around her palm.

Her stomach twists.

She pushes away from the table almost instantly.

She needs to see Burt Hummel and takes off toward his tent at once.

If there is one person in this infantry whom knows where Brittany has been sent, it will be him. As she enters she finds him sitting at his worktable, his supper untouched and cooling upon the surface. A pang of hunger stirs in her gut at the sight. She can't recall the last time she's eaten. Yet it is a fleeting sensation, soon replaced with the biting anxiety of her goal when she looks back up at Burt. His attention is drawn down to a few newer etchings upon his table, eyes clouded with something she cannot place as he traces over Brittany's work.

"He's been sent to Lexington," Burt says, knowing full well who's just stepped into his tent. He looks up, giving her a welcoming smile, though she notes, one that does not quite reach his eyes, as he motions for her to take a seat.

Santana sits, nerves still on edge even as he tells her to relax. She can't relax, not until she knows, "When will Bret return?"

Burt regards her with a thoughtful gaze, taking in the lack of sleep evident in the redness creeping into the corners of her eyes. Observing with a frown the taut lines of stress crinkling her brow he sighs, weary, "another day, at the least."

"How could you let him _go_?" she questions, voice hardening with resentment. "You of all people should be looking out for him! And with the Southerners about? You've sent him to his grave!"

Burt looks tired, every bit the worried father as he tells her as calmly as he can, "You need not worry so for Bret, Miss Santana. He was chosen as our courier for a reason."

Santana lets out a snort, arms crossed defensively over her chest as she tells him, "He can barely read let alone be allowed to ride with his shoulder still healing. How can he be the best for the job?"

"He assured me his shoulder was fit. As for his job, he is the fastest upon a horse. _Any_ horse," Burt adds when Santana looks like she's about to interrupt. "Have you any idea what an asset that is?"

Santana does not and thus shrugs, still upset as she mutters, "you seem to be the only one who thinks so."

"I assure you I am not," he tells her, adamant. "As for the boys who think otherwise, I believe it may be more to do with Bret's nature than his skills upon a horse."

Santana bristles. "Bret is perfectly fine just the way he is."

"We may think so, but as for them," he says, nodding toward the entrance. They look out the tent, across the way to where a few of the younger men pass, Scott Cooper among them.

Burt sighs, "I can see why they'd give him such a hard time, being so different from them. They do the same to my boy back home."

"They should show Bret the respect he deserves, regardless," she snarls and as an afterthought adds, "your son as well."

Burt grins. "On that we both agree."

She'd expected him to concur, and yet the fortitude behind his words surprises her nonetheless. Burt obviously cares a great deal for his son and in turn sees a great deal of his son in Brittany. She knows he cares for Bret and is doing the best he can to ensure his safety. What upsets her is that he doesn't seem to care when it matters most. "And so what if he's good with horses?" she berates him. "That still doesn't mean he should have been chosen. He could—"

Burt smiles softly, Santana's words faltering at the amused look. "Don't let your affections for him cloud your judgment," he says.

Santana blanches, stammering, "I've n-not—"

"He'll return soon, Miss Santana," Burt tells her with a knowing grin. "You may have been acquainted with him for this past week but rest assured that he's undertaken journeys far longer than this since enlisting."

"That was before everything went to hell."

"He's a smart boy, he'll keep safe."

Santana wishes she could believe him.

* * *

She heads back to the medical tent, hoping to immerse herself in work and thus forget all about the frustrating conversation she just shared with Burt. And what more, the gaping hole she feels Brittany's prolonged absence is drilling through her heart. It works for a while, but she loses focus fast. A flash of blonde hair here sends her heart hammering. The clomps of a horse there knots her stomach. She can barely concentrate by nightfall, something Dr. Lopez is quick to notice.

And even quicker to shame her for.

"What is wrong with you?" he demands, voice laced with disdain as Santana fumbles with the bandages in her hands, the once sterile wrappings falling to the soiled floor. He lets out a groan, shoving her aside as he picks the useless wraps up. "You need only put these away and yet even in this task your incompetence is astounding. It's as if you have lost all your mental facilities in the span of a few _hours_."

"I apologize, sir," Santana hurries out as she gathers fresh wrappings and hands them to her father in exchange for the others. He tosses them at her, uncaring as he dismisses her with a wave of his hand.

"Get out of here. You're too distraught and acting like some infatuated fiend over that stupid boy."

Santana replies instantly, heated, "Bret's not stupid."

" _Out!_ "

She leaves without further protest.

Santana doesn't think she's acting at all infatuated. Worried, surely, but anyone would be over the sudden absence of their friend to an uncertain fate. And with a friend like Brittany she feels her concern is justified. Even in her bath, scrubbing the blood and grime from her body, she can't stop the argument raging in her head. It's maddening really, how fast she's come to accept Brittany into her life. However begrudgingly she may have acted over it at first Santana's glad for the other woman's presence now. And yes, sometimes Brittany leaves her feeling a bit flustered and perhaps a part of her is a _might bit_ receptive to those occurrences but that still doesn't make her infatuated.

Intrigued, a given.

Curiously inclined, for certain.

But the more she thinks on it, the more she realizes she does care for Brittany. It's a word seldom used in her minds eye aside from the act with which she imparts medical practice upon a patient. Yet it fits here as well, right in line with her concern for the courier's whereabouts. She _cares_ where Brittany has gone, _cares_ to see her return safely.

Cares _for_ her.

And what more, has never cared for anything let alone anyone the way she does her.

It's an entirely new and frightening revelation.

So it comes as no surprise to her when after her bath, dressed in her nightclothes with a long coat wrapped about her shoulders, that Santana finds herself just outside of Brittany's wedge tent. On the ground, just as she'd once said, lies a small rock. _Lucy's home_ , Santana thinks with a wistful smile. Without thought she ducks down through the canvas flap, crouching in the low tent upon her knees. It's a small space, barely enough room for two let alone the four or five that would usually occupy the quarters. A small box sits in the far corner; a half filled oil lamp rests atop. Brittany's journal, the gift Santana had made for her, sits open on the surface. A few crudely written letters are jotted upon the page. _Brittany's been practicing_. Her chest tightens and she tears her gaze away, down to where the bedroll rests, unmade, blankets scattered near the foot. Santana swallows down the piercing sting that rises in her throat at the sight. Brittany didn't get the chance to sleep more than perhaps a few minutes before she was sent off. She remembers so vividly as the taller woman rushed into the medical tent that night. Her eyes were bright, as they always were, yet hardened as well and filled with a confidence even Santana is sure now must have been feigned.

Brittany couldn't have been so fearless. Not when she knew what she could be facing. What could befall her, alone, out there on the roads.

Santana finds it hard to breathe suddenly, trapped with a suffocating hopelessness inside the tiny tent. _Brittany's tent._ Brittany, who has been sent out in the dead of night on what Santana feels is a fool's errand. Brittany, who may not return.

Who may end up dying upon a cot like so many others today...

Her eyes fill with tears almost as quickly as the sob that catches in her throat. She crawls to Brittany's bed, sinking face-first into the small scarf Brittany has fashioned into a pillow. Her cries are muffled by the soft fabric, yet her tears only stream thicker as Brittany's distinctive scent overwhelms her. Grass and smoke from the fire they danced beside fills her senses. She sniffles, turning to her side as she furiously wipes the tears from her face at the memory. She curls into the blankets, hugging herself as she huddles deep into the bedroll.

She falls into a fitful sleep soon after, dreaming of dances she's afraid she'll never partake in again.

* * *

**October 8th, 1862**

Morning comes and with it the sounds of bustling outside the tent. It's a different kind of ruckus from the usually slow morning routine. Santana is quick to hurry out, fearful of the men she finds swinging their muskets over their shoulders, expressions grim as they hasten about. It doesn't take her long to realize their mobilizing for battle.

Her stomach drops.

She takes off quickly toward Burt's tent, knowing Brittany must have returned. The cool morning air bites at her nose and bare calves as she dashes across camp, ignoring the hollers of the more lurid soldiers. She's left her coat back in Brittany's tent, the chill air cutting straight through her nightdress.

Propriety be dammed.

She cares not.

She spots Brittany sitting atop Piedmont, face pallid as she speaks with Burt. He helps Brittany down, giving her a pat along her back and in return a pained smile spreads across her chapped lips. _She's hurt_ , Santana thinks, heart wrenching in her chest. Almost if by chance Brittany looks up, gaze instantly locking upon Santana's. The pained smile on a pale face turns toward reassurance.

Santana sprints toward her, not stopping until their bodies collide and she envelopes Brittany into a desperate hug. She can feel Brittany chuckling, the sound wrapping snugly about her heart. It's all she can do to stop herself when she buries her face against Brittany's neck, holding her tight. "I'm so glad you're all right," she all but breathes. God, how's she's missed her.

Brittany says nothing, merely bringing her arms up to hold Santana near. One of them shudders; Santana is worried but unwilling to let go just yet. She pulls back when she feels Brittany shivering against her once more. The courier's face has drained of color, eyes the lightest blue Santana's ever seen them.

"Is it your shoulder?" Santana asks, releasing her grip on Brittany in favor of letting her hand rest lightly upon the taller woman's arms.

Brittany shakes her head and coughs, a deep gurgling sound pulled from her throat. She turns her head away, quick to bring her hands to her mouth. Santana's blood run colds at the sight of red liquid staining Brittany's fingers.

"Britt?" Santana moves closer, careful as she drapes an arm behind Brittany's back.

Brittany doubles over, another blood-filled cough ripped from her chest.

She gazes back up at Santana, lips smeared red and eyes pained. "San…"

"N-no," Santana breathes, reaching out toward Brittany as the taller woman falls to her knees upon the ground. Brittany's breaths are short, Santana's eyes widening in horror at the hole rendered through the back of Brittany's jacket. Blood quickly blooms across the fabric, staining the blue a deep purple. Panic seizes her. "No!" she screams, diving down to her own knees beside the fallen courier.

"He needs a doctor!" Burt is shouting but Santana can barely hear him past the blood rushing through her ears, pounding hard against her head.

She wills her mouth to work, to yell that she's here, _she's_ a doctor, _she can help._

Her hands barely brush against Brittany's coat when Puckerman grabs her round the waist and begins to drag her away. "No!" She thrashes against Puckerman's hold. Tears clouding her vision as she watches, helpless as Brittany collapses to the ground. " _Brittany!_ "

A bugle blares loudly through the camp, ripping Santana from her nightmare. A cold sweat has broken out across her forehead. The blanket is damp as it clings to her clammy skin. She can't control her breaths, mind still reeling with the vision of Brittany lying motionless- _dead_ before her. She slams her eyes shut, panting hard as she digs her fingers deep into the bedroll and wills the image away. "A dream," she tells herself, voice cracking and gruff. "It was nothing but a dream."

The bugle calls again, the sound causing Santana's heart to skip a beat. It's still dark outside; she's not sure of the time. She can hear the men in the tent beside her scurrying; the shouts of their Captain carrying down the row.

"File out men! War is upon our door!"

She thinks she must be dreaming, stuck in a nightmare she can't escape.

_Not again_ , she begs, hugging her legs to her chest. She cannot watch Brittany die again.

" _THIS IS NOT A DRILL! FALL IN!_ "

The order is screamed, soldiers frantically sprinting from their tents.

Santana lets out a gasp, throwing the blankets from her body as she hurries from the tent. She trips as she exits, head impacting hard against the pole in the entrance. It barely hurts as she scrambles to her feet. The implication of the order renders every nerve in her body on fire. Brittany must have returned with word from Lexington. It is the only reason she could think of why the army is being sent to fight.

Again she thinks of her dream but she forces herself not to dwell on the cruel workings of her subconscious. _Brittany is all right_ , she repeats to herself.

A flood of relief rushes through her as the thought blessedly sinks in, nearly leaving her dizzy as she rushes down the row buttoning up her coat. She pushes terrified soldiers aside on her way. She has to see Brittany, has to make sure she's all right. Camp is a disarray of bodies and clanking metal as men hurry to gather the supplies they'll need for the coming battle. Faces are grim, many panicked, a few even on the brink of tears. A handful of the men part as she dashes past; others are not so lucky as she plows by, their shoulders knocked away and bruised. They holler expletives after her but she cares not.

She does care though when her father's hands wrap tightly about her arm, yanking her from the throng of men and pulling her away from her objective. She wrenches her grip free, about to lash into him with a choice set of words when she meets his severe and silencing gaze.

"You are to stay here, keep to the wounded," he instructs her. His eyes flicker over toward the infantry, to the men marching from the camp. A brief flash of trepidation crosses his eyes, lips pursed as he inhales sharply. But no sooner does it appear that it's gone, just like that, with a blink of his eyes. He focuses down upon Santana again, taking a calming breath before he speaks next, "I am to accompany Colonel Tafel to the field. I cannot have you botching things up so don't even begin to ask to follow me int—"

"Very well," Santana interrupts, surprising her father with her consent.

He squints at her for a moment, wondering why she isn't protesting him as she is wont to do. But her eyes are focused somewhere over his shoulder and he can't quite pin just who she's searching for. No matter, he's wasted enough time. The wagons shall roll out soon and he is needed elsewhere. He forces her attention back with a snap of his fingers. And once she's looking back at him he tells her, "prep for the worst."

She nods, final. No goodbyes are exchanged, no wishes of safety. He simply turns and hurries into the medic wagon as it makes its way out the camp behind the lines of men marching into the night.

As the last of the cannons are rolled out and the path clears, Santana spots Brittany, sitting hunched beneath a blanket on the ground outside Burt's tent. Her breath catches at the sight, fear quickly taking hold of her heart as she wills her legs into motion and runs toward the courier. Flashes of her dream stream through her mind: Brittany's smile, the blood upon her hands. Santana shakes them from her thoughts. But they've left a mark upon her. One that causes her to halt in her steps for even at a distance Santana can tell Brittany is pale, her skin stark beneath the glow of the warm lamp hung over Burt's entrance. The steaming cup held in her hands does little to bring color back to her cheeks.

Santana breaks into a full run.

Burt sees her before Brittany does. The sound of the army marching out may silence her steps but the dark figure rushing toward them is unmistakable. He squats down beside his charge, slipping a letter into Brittany's pocket before he gently takes the cup of warm milk from her hands, much to Brittany's confusion and obvious discontent.

She stares up at Burt, fingering the letter in her pocket as she clutches the blanket to her shoulders and quirks a brow in question. "What is it?"

"That is your mail," he explains nodding to her pocket. And then glancing over the top of her head he adds, "And someone has been worrying herself sick over you."

Brittany barely has the time to process what he could mean when two knees slap into the muddy ground beside her and a pair of strong arms wrap around her body. Brittany gives a yelp as that someone embraces her fiercely, nearing tackling her straight down to the ground. But she holds steady as that someone is quick to be placed as a familiar scent invades her senses and a welcome warmth pools in her gut. She leans into the body beside hers, eyes falling close as she hugs Santana back.

" _You're all right_ ," Santana murmurs against Brittany's neck, burying her face deep into the courier's collar. Brittany nods against Santana's head, inhaling deeply as she holds the trembling woman close. She has an idea of why Santana's showing her such open affection. It was clear the doctor has been worried for her. Brittany thinks she needn't be so upset. While the trip had been long and toilsome the roads were luckily clear. She's no worse for wear despite feeling a bit sore, chilled and in need of a very long nap.

Brittany pulls away first, frowning as she spots tears blurring the corners of Santana's eyes. She gives her a soft half-smile as she tucks some of Santana's mussed hair behind one of her ears. Her smile widens, blearily, when Santana's eyes flutter closed at her touch.

"My shoulder feels stiff and I'm a bit tuckered but all right," Brittany tells her, slowly sitting back, hands once more holding her blanket in place around her shoulders. Her gaze focuses beyond Burt's tent, to where she can see him tending to an exhausted Piedmont. "I'm worried for Piedy, I rode him through the past few nights to get here as soon as I could. He needs rest and—"

"Burt's got him," Santana interrupts, pulling Brittany's attention and gaze back upon her own. "I know you care about him but right now I'm more concerned about _you_."

"This is my job, Santana. You shouldn't worry so. It'll give you old lady lines," Brittany tells her softly, brushing her fingertips over the crinkle above Santana's brow. "I told you, I'm all right."

Santana grabs Brittany's hand before she can take hold of her blanket again. The wrinkles upon her forehead only crease deeper. "You're freezing to the touch," she says, rubbing Brittany's hand between her own.

"You're making that all better though," Brittany offers with a kind smile.

Santana blushes, stilling her strokes in favor of simply holding Brittany's hand. It's only now, with Brittany obviously uninjured and sitting before her, that Santana feels all the tension in her body ebb. She relaxes some in her posture, wrinkles upon her forehead disappearing. Yet the tension creeps back, this time of a different kind when Brittany dares the touch further, sliding her palm along Santana's until her fingers fall in place beside the doctor's and she laces their hands together.

Brittany watches, pleased, as the blush on Santana's cheeks darken, the ghost of a smile pulling at full lips.

"Don't worry for me," Brittany tells her, voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze flits toward the distant field. They can both hear the sounds of the army fading over the far hills. "Not when you should worry for them."

Santana squeezes Brittany's hand. "I'm terrified of what will ensue," she admits, a quiver spiking in her voice. Their eyes meet and whilst Brittany wishes to chase away the anguish she sees reflected back at her inside the brown, watery gaze… she knows she cannot. Not when her own so obviously mirror the doctors.

So she holds tight to Santana's hand and whispers all there is to be said, "We all are."

Burt watches them from a distance; apprehensive yet delighted at their coupling. He's not surprised, not in the least. What little he's been able to pry from Bret of his time spent with Santana there was always a wistful quality to his tone, accompanied by a telltale darkening of his eyes. Time is an ever-present, ominous vice during war. Not enough, speeding quickly, taken from even the best of men. Love needs time; it needs to breathe, to be given the chance to grow. Thrive. Needs solid ground, strong roots. It doesn't flourish in chaos. It needs attention, devotion. What Burt sees before him is something that defies all he's come to know of love. Because as Bret rests his head against Santana's and the doctor nestles closer he sees devotion in the touch. He sees love growing, right here before his very eyes.

He doesn't want it stripped from them, not when they've yet to realize the same.

They need time.

Time the world has seen fit to take from so many already.

And so many more come the first light of day.

Soon the regiment will converge with other union troops on its way to Perryville. Major General Buell will take command of a brigade of men. And come dawn time will seem to stand still as the sounds of battle filter down over the hillsides, the pained voices of some 8,000 men easily piercing through the chill autumn sky.

* * *

Brittany doesn't get the chance to read her letter. Once Santana is pulled back to her duties in the medical tent Burt sends her off to get a few hours' rest. He hates that he must wake Bret to help fold out more cots in the extension to the medical tent Santana's had him construct. But they need every extra hand they can muster. Brittany's tired but takes to the work with renewed vigor. Her shoulder aches and she rolls it a few times to loosen the stiffness the long ride has caused.

She catches Santana watching her from where she's attending to a patient.

Brittany gives her a smile, hoping it's enough to subdue the concern she sees in the brown eyes. She knows the last thing Santana needs is to be distracted right now, especially when the remaining men in the tent are in dire need of her aid. So when Santana gives her a small smile back and returns to her work, Brittany breathes a sigh of relief. To be honest she doesn't feel quite well; she can't seem to shake the chill that has seeped into her bones no matter the layers she's pulled on beneath her jacket.

Burt told her to take breaks whenever she needed and with dawn now upon them she thinks she very well may sit down for bit. She waves over to Burt, catching his attention as she points out the tent.

"Don't fret, Bret!" he calls to her. "Take the time you need."

She slinks out, yawning. The camp is vacant, silent save for the chirps of a few night critters heading toward their dens in the surrounding trees. _It's odd_ , Brittany thinks as she takes a seat on the table outside the tent, feet propped up on the bench below. She's so used to seeing men milling about, chatting beside fires and shuffling off to drills. There is always noise, always the smell of a stew brewing, horses needing to be calmed. The stillness that settles around the camp now has her missing those undisturbed days. It couldn't last, she knows, the reality of war has been approaching for a while now.

She hugs her arms to her chest, wincing at the strain in her shoulder. She wishes she had a cup of warm milk about now. Her father always fixed her a glass on days like these. When all you want to do is sleep and fend off the cold in the air. She thinks back to earlier in the night, to the cup Burt had made for her. She'd barely enjoyed a few sips when he plucked it from her hands.

She smiles when she thinks of why though. Santana had surprised her. She hadn't taken the other woman for the affectionate type, let alone willing to indulge in the intimacy of a hug. _Initiate_ it even. Brittany can vividly remember the way Santana held her tight; almost as if afraid she'd slip away otherwise. Sitting here now she swears she can still feel the memory of the doctors arms wrapped around her.

It warms her.

Brittany doesn't know how long she's been sitting out there when the sounds of the forest grow quiet and all that can be heard is the scrape of wood as Burt fixes up more cots.

Dawn creeps up over the hill, painting the sky a brilliant amber.

Ten miles away in Perryville she knows the battle has begun.

She whispers a silent prayer for the men, hugging herself closer.

"Found you," Santana says quietly, shaking Brittany from her thoughts.

Brittany can't help but smile upon hearing her voice, and when she turns toward the other woman it only grows wider. In Santana's hands is a steaming mug filled to the brim with fresh milk.

Santana's cheeks are tinged with a light blush as she holds the cup out to Brittany. "Burt told me you favored it warm like this," she says, still acting uncharacteristically timid. "I hope it's not too hot."

Brittany brings it to her lips, appreciative as she takes a cautious sip. It's undoubtedly too hot, the liquid nearly searing her throat as she swallows it down. But she covers her discomfort with a shake of her head and a thankful smile upon her lips. She pats the space beside her, inviting Santana to sit.

"I shouldn't," Santana tells her, eyes drifting back toward the tent. "There's still so much to be done."

"Of course," Brittany says, hoping her disappointment doesn't show upon her face. She understands though, Santana does need to return back to her work. Setting her cup down to cool, she reaches forward, taking one of Santana's hands with her own. The doctor startles at the sudden move, head whipping around to meet Brittany's gaze. "Thank you for the milk," Brittany tells her, smiling softly. "It was sweet of you."

Santana shifts upon her feet, the heat from Brittany's hand seeming to pour straight up her arm and then down past her belly. Her face still feels uncomfortably warm as she says, "You should get some rest."

"I know," Brittany sighs. "But like you said, there's still so much to do."

Santana squeezes Brittany's hand gently. "Don't worry, we have everything covered. Go sleep."

"But—"

"As the preeminent physician in this camp right now," Santana smirks, tugging Brittany down from her perch upon the table. Once on the ground Santana gives Brittany a gentle push toward her tent. "I order you to go rest."

"You'll wake me, if you need anything, right?" Brittany asks, still hesitant even with Santana chuckling and shoving at her back.

"Yes!" Santana tells her, shooing her away.

Brittany begins to retreat back to her tent, looking forward to the sleep her body has been craving. She halts though, giving a small yelp when she realizes she's forgotten something. Santana watches, a bit worried as Brittany jogs back up to her. For a fleeting moment she simultaneously fears and desires that Brittany has simply returned to give her a hug. _It's a childish hope_ , Santana thinks, feeling exceptionally foolish when Brittany gives her a bashful grin as she collects her mug of milk instead.

"Almost forgot it," Brittany says, giving Santana a wink before she walks back off toward her tent once again.

Santana lets out a long self-loathing breath once Brittany is a great distance away. She's not quite sure what is going on inside her head today, let alone why she's reacting like such a … such a _dandy_ around Brittany. It is embarrassing, and entirely unlike her. She thinks perhaps she's still running on a high from their earlier reunion but that was hours ago and she's, thankfully, ceased being as disoriented as she was then.

There's a nagging feeling, edging somewhere just at the edge of her conscious. She can't place it. She cares for Brittany, of that much she is sure. For god's sake, she wouldn't go around fetching warm milk for just anyone. Brittany is different. Different in the same way as she, both hoping to fit into a world neither quite belonged. And yet they'd found one another, despite it all.

To have finally found a friend, let alone one she trusts, she thinks she should feel happier. But it's hard to feel joy when death is so thick in the air and her thoughts need to be focused upon helping the wounded lying behind her rather than deciphering her feelings. More injured will arrive soon and she needs to be prepared. Needs to be strong and not the whimpering mess of a fool she feels she was when the ambush victims were brought in.

She refuses to be that woman again.

Steeling her nerves, she ducks back into the medical tent, intent upon proving to her father just how formidable a doctor she will one day be. Without him.

* * *

Night has fallen upon the empty camp by the time Santana has decided all that can be done had been. There are at least half a dozen some surgery stations, prepped and sterilized, ready for use once the army arrives. A hundred and five cots and bedrolls have been laid throughout the medical ward, enough space between each to allow her father and the medic's access to any patient if need be. Lamps are filled, blankets arranged, ventilation slits cut open at even intervals along the tent roof. It is better than any field hospital she thinks could currently be in operation. She'd even personally seen to it herself that there were enough bedpans to ensure dysentery would not spread.

The nurses praised her work as she checked over one of the wounded soldiers' sutures she'd redone that morning. She is flattered by their words, finally beginning to trust in their smiles. She kindly dismissed them once she was finished, telling them to return to their beds and to get as much sleep as they could before the regiment returned.

That was around late afternoon.

It is well past supper now. The stars are bright in the clear sky above. Come morning, or even sooner Santana thinks, hundreds of soldiers will come pouring back into the camp. Right now though, all she wants is to end her day beside Brittany. She misses their evenings spent in front of a fire, their lessons always dissolving into something she can't quite explain. Glimpses into Brittany's life, tidbits about who the strange and wonderful girl was beneath the façade of a man she put forth in the day. She's been looking forward to it.

She finds Brittany easily. The last tent in the last row. It stands slightly lopsided and is the only one currently aglow. Santana makes her way over, brushing down her dress as she walks. She's mindful to keep her distance from Lucy's rock, the last thing she wants is for the snake to make an appearance upon her boot. Before entering she gives a light knock against the support post running the length of the tent-top.

From within the sound of muffled sniffles meet her ears and Santana's once hopeful expression drops along with her stomach. She squats down, pushing aside the flap to peer inside. Brittany sits near the corner box, hair tumbling down past her shoulders, an old fountain pen in hand… crying softly. There are a few crumbled pieces of paper discarded beside her, a letter sitting unfolded upon the desk. Hendrick's familiar penmanship glistens in the light of the lamp's flame.

Santana fears the worst. She crouches down and crawls toward Brittany.

Brittany's head snaps over at the intrusion. She'd thought she heard a knock but brushed the sound aside, imagining it was simply Lucy heading out for the night. Her watery gaze finds Santana's, her tears only falling harder once she realizes how much she needs someone right now. Someone to tell her everything will be all right.

"Brittany?" Santana ventures, sitting upon her heels once she's reached the courier's side.

"I d-don't know what to w-write," Brittany stammers, her head bowed, hands trembling in her lap. " _She's not w-well, San,"_ she chokes out.

Santana leans forward, arms quick to embrace the broken woman before her. Brittany melts against into her. "It's okay," she whispers.

"I k-keep shaking when I try," Brittany whimpers. "H-her fever… San, s-she's _dying_."

"Shh," Santana soothes, scooting closer and pulling Brittany flush against her. She can feel Brittany's tears soaking through her blouse, dampening her skin beneath, and it only makes Santana hold her that much tighter.

Brittany clings to her, unable to voice all the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. She can't imagine a life without Emily. She feels so helpless being so far from her, unable to hold her hand, to give her even that bit of love.

Her tears don't cease though and she's grateful, so grateful that Santana never lets go.

Santana feels herself crumbling in time with the sobs that wrack Brittany's body. She wishes there was more comfort she could give, more she could do to change the words of sorrow the letter has brought to the mess of a woman crying in her arms. But there is nothing she can give, nothing aside from the shoulder she's already willingly bequeathed. Santana's not good with emotions, and certainly has never been in such a position before. No one has ever turned to her for comfort. Yet the way Brittany clings to her, seeming to draw peace and strength from her presence, Santana believes perhaps she's not so hopeless when it comes to caring for another after all.

And especially since she cares so very much for Brittany Pierce.

Santana breathes deeply, holding Brittany's shuddering body closer. _I'm here_ , she wills silently into her touch. She presses a soft kiss to Brittany's head, nuzzling her nose into blonde hair.

_I care._

She can feel Brittany's ear brush against her chin and all it takes is slight tilt of her head before she settles another kiss to the tip.

"It's all right," she whispers _,_ kissing Brittany's ear again. _  
_

Brittany's cries begin to quiet, her breaths instead growing ragged as Santana places a warm kiss to her cheek.

Shaking hands grip tighter to Santana's blouse front when those same lips brush against her jaw, lingering for a moment longer. The touch does little to calm Brittany's yearnings. And just as Santana moves to pull away Brittany turns, capturing the corner of Santana's lips between her own and quenching the want burning in her heart.

Something deep inside Santana snaps at the move, allows her to indulge in the simple press of Brittany's lips against her own. But all too soon she pulls back sharply with a gasp. The only thing she can think of to say tumbles from her mouth before she can halt the hurtful words, "Y-you're not a man."

Brittany stares at her for a moment, eyes stained with her drying tears, heartrending and still. Simply, she replies, "No, I'm not."

"Brittany… you—" Santana stammers, brow furrowed in a mess of conflicting emotions.

It's not confusing to Brittany. She knows what she wants and isn't afraid to voice her thoughts aloud as she tells Santana softly, "I'd very much like to kiss you again. And I won't miss this time."

Santana shakes her head quickly, shuffling back from Brittany until her back meets the entrance post with a loud thud. The tent shakes, leaning a bit more to the left at the impact. Santana can't stop the shivers that still roll down her arms, nor regain control of her rapidly beating heart. She doesn't know how Brittany can sit there, calm as the night air beyond while she unravels in a spectacular display of cowardice.

Brittany had expected a bit of shock, but the look of pure terror upon Santana's face breaks her heart. She never wished to bring her such pain. She turns her gaze to the ground, hurt as she mutters, "… forgive me."

Santana's features soften; her entire demeanor deflates at Brittany's unnecessary apology. _She's done no wrong_ , Santana realizes. Brittany was brave enough to do the very thing she'd been so afraid to seek for herself. _And this is how you treat her in return?_

Brittany can't meet Santana's eyes, so unwilling to see the disgust and disappointment they must surely be full of. To be losing her sister and now Santana? _How cruel_ , she thinks with a quiver of her lips. She keeps her gaze staunchly upon her knees, never once allowing them to venture up. Not even as the doctor crawls back toward her, not even as she feels a pair of small hands cup her face. For when she finally does let her gaze turn up by then it's too late. Santana's lips are upon her own, soft and warm. Hesitant in their touch but promising, willing. And even as Brittany's eyes remain wide open, Santana's are closed. After a second though Brittany's are soon to follow, fluttering shut as she melts into the kiss.

She's only ever shared this part of herself with two others. Though really, share is not quite the right word. The first she hadn't expected. A kiss stolen, nothing but a quick peck _,_ from the mill boy when she was eight. He'd run off before she could even say anything. Oh how she remembers her mothers laugh when she'd told her and the way her father's face burned red with wrath. He'd ranted for days of the kiss after. Just like he did again years later when instead of the mill boy it was the farm hand he'd hired for the summer who stole a kiss from her whilst they filled bottles with fresh milk. Needless to say there was never another need for a farm hand after that day. Kissing it seemed was something to forever be a surprise for her, planted upon her from seemingly nowhere leaving her confused and feeling a bit robbed once it was over.

She's always wanted to see what it was like, to be the lips doing the stealing. To want someone enough to kiss them, even with the fear of their unreturned sentiments nagging in her head. It's taken her a long time but she is sure she's found that someone now. She's never met anyone she's wanted, not in the way she wants Santana. She stole a kiss from her knowing full well that her feelings may not be returned. But the dances, those dances spoke so much in their favor. She hadn't imagined it would hurt though, seeing Santana so upset after their kiss. For a brief moment she thought perhaps she should have asked permission before kissing her. Would Santana have said no?

Would they be kissing as they are now, without fear, had she not given into her desires?

Does it even matter anymore?

_No_ , Brittany thinks and finds herself smiling into the kiss. This moment could not be more sublime. It's a slow, deliberate study that she decides to undertake. Every nuance and sensation Santana stirs within her immediately burned to her memory. Santana's hands are firm as they hold her in place, quite the contrary to the way her mouth tentatively slips to capture Brittany's bottom lip between her own. Of course Santana would never miss.

Santana can feel Brittany smiling against her lips, the courier pressing further against her, arms looping around her neck. She tries hard to keep the small whimper from escaping her lips but escape it does only spurring Brittany to kiss her all the more. She's had her share of confreres, those with which she's allowed to indulge her in a kiss. Usually after much drink and in a far corner of her parents social gatherings. There was no better way to infuriate her dear mother faster and surely set herself free from an evening spent in maddeningly dull company than to cross that line of decorum in relative sight. The boys were always such a bother afterward, calling after her and requesting invites to accompany her to _church_ of all places. Such ignoramuses. She gave up on it all together by sixteen.

It simply wasn't worth the trouble.

If there was nothing to be gained from the act then it was simply to be forever thought impractical.

And not to mention a stupid waste of time and a surefire way to land herself with a bought of influenza.

There were so many impractical things in the world Santana has lost count of them all. Some though, are at the very forefront of her mind.

Having a friend used to be impractical, until she met Brittany. Dancing used to be impractical, until she danced with Brittany. And she sure as hell doesn't find kissing anywhere near impractical, now that she's kissing Brittany.

Breathing though, suddenly a very impractical function.

It's over with a sharp inhale from Santana who pulls them apart. Her dark eyes are clouded; pupils still wide, muddled with an emotion Brittany's never seen in them before. She thinks hers must look the same if the blush rising on Santana's cheeks is any indication. Santana can't quite believe what she's just done. She can still taste Brittany's lips upon her own, feel them tingling even now. She wants to kiss her again. The thought scares her, renders her absolutely petrified.

Brittany's brow crinkles with worry as the black in Santana's eyes squeeze pinpoint sharp and the doctor's chest rises and falls far faster than she's comfortable seeing it. That mild panic Santana tried so hard to keep at bay surfaces, crushingly so. She can't want to kiss Brittany again. Not Brittany. Not a woman. Not the only thing in this horrid world she _cares_ for. She can't lose her, not like in her dream. Not in any way.

Brittany leans forward, resting her forehead against Santana's, willing for the other woman to calm once again, "You don't have to be scared anymore," she whispers brushing her lips against Santana's once more.

Santana lets out shaky breath, her warm exhale tickling Brittany's chin as she mutters, " _I am_ …"

Brittany smiles anyway. "You're a wonderful kisser. I'd gather the best, actually."

Santana lets out a nervous chuckle. "You're not making this easy."

"It's always been easy," Brittany tells her. "You just like everything knotty."

Again Santana finds herself laughing softly, this time with ease, just as Brittany promised. She can't believe the simplicity with which Brittany speaks leaves her feeling so calm. She thinks the smile upon the blonde's lips helps. It's always so warm, relaxed.

"Stay tonight," Brittany requests.

Panic back. Santana shakes her head quickly, " _I can't_."

"I know you did while I was gone," Brittany says with a knowing smirk curling at the left corner of her mouth.

Santana pulls back, cheeks darkening. "How'd you—"

"My scarf, it smells like you," Brittany explains simply, her smile tender. "Stay again, please?"

The request is uncomplicated, Santana thinks. _Then why am I making it so?_ She really has no answer, not one that could explain why she cannot stay. At least not one she deems worthy enough. There are the supposed rules of society to follow, but even Santana knows that's a farce of an excuse. They could be caught was another, yet it is unlikely given the circumstances. There is no one here to find them. The only thing keeping her from staying is herself. She doesn't know why she fears staying. She wanted to find Brittany, sought her out even. _You kissed her!_ If she were to leave now, deny Brittany this simple request, the courier would surely be disappointed. She cannot leave her alone, not with that letter still sitting so close and the dried tears still evident upon her pale cheeks. And the truth is she wishes nothing more than to curl back into Brittany's bedroll, this time with the courier safe by her side.

Fears be damned.

They have but one night.

It's a subtle, shy nod that Santana gives her in answer.

With the lamp extinguished they settle down beside one another on the small bedroll, Brittany unable to wipe the smile from her lips, Santana unwilling to release Brittany's hand. They don't move, each too afraid to shatter the moment they find themselves in. But Brittany can see Santana's earlier fear sinking back into those dark eyes, and she so wishes for Santana to not be afraid. So she pulls Santana's hand closer, tucking it beneath her chin as she whispers, "we'll be all right."

And even when Santana nestles closer, head tucked beneath Brittany's chin instead, Brittany can't help but think she's just told a lie. Because despite this moment she can still see her father's letter sitting atop her box. She can still glimpse the tent across the row, empty now, from between the space in her flap.

She can still fear for what is to come the moment morning breaks across the horizon and the men return.

When this moment will end and nothing will be all right, not anymore.


	7. We Cast the Same Shadow

Santana wakes late in the night, hyper-aware of her proximity to the peacefully slumbering courier. At some point in the night they'd huddled closer, an impossible feat in Santana's mind. And yet here she lays, surprised by how unbelievably tangled they have become. She's unsure of where her legs have vanished between Brittany's, and even more weary of what may stir within her were she to slide one free. Her body is already heated enough as is. In that same vein she's utterly suspicious of whose hand is resting so low over her stomach that it would be deemed indecent if not for her dress barring the way. Or, worse yet, the way in which she desires that hand to remain right where it is. She flexes the fingers on her right hand, a quick breath drawn between her lips when she feels Brittany's hand move ever so slightly across her waist to twine with a few of her own fingers. Unsurprisingly, directly where she dreaded and desired them resting most. And just as before, a rush of heat finds home in her belly beneath the touch. The sensation lingers, burning.

She's entirely cognizant of what the reaction means. Of the affections she's borne. Feelings she holds so deeply for Brittany, a _woman_.

They came upon her so swiftly Santana is still struggling to calm her heart, so sure Brittany will hear the strong beats as they thump loudly against the place that the blonde's head rests atop Santana's chest. Her silent pleas go unheard though, heart still hammering as Brittany continues, blessedly, sleeping half atop her. This moment terrifies Santana. She fears those blue eyes opening and staring up at her with the same promises they held a mere few hours prior. With feelings Santana's undoubtedly sure she isn't ready to face. Not yet, and certainly not in this horrid world.

The thought barely has time to settle when Brittany shifts beside her, warm body fitting so remarkably against her own. Santana feels the other woman's nose nuzzle further into the grove of her neck, a small hum of absolute contentedness slipping past Brittany's lips.

Santana cannot lie idly beside her any longer. Not when her mind yearns to pull her lost hand free and run fingers through the blonde hair tickling her cheek. When she wants nothing more than to hold Brittany closer and breathe in this moment before she inevitably ruins it. As ruin it she must because what she feels for Brittany is far too real and formidable.

She cannot afford to abandon her control again as she did last night. There is too much at stake, so much to be lost. Just thinking of the consequences has her feeling faint. What if they were caught? What would happen to her? _To Brittany?_

She chokes.

Carrying this... whatever _this_ is that's developed between them, carrying _it_ on is not an option.

With a bite of her bottom lip and breath deftly held she begins to detangle herself from the slumbering woman. It's slow; Brittany stirs a few times, nose scrunching as she blindly reaches for the warmth Santana provides. It takes all of Santana's willpower not to just cave into her desires and slip right down beside Brittany once again.

Outside, somewhere far in the distance, she can hear the telltale sounds of the army as they make their way back toward camp. Knowing she is needed elsewhere finally gives her the strength she needs to fully move from Brittany's bed. With a heavy heart she lets go of the courier's hand.

Which is, naturally, the very moment Brittany rouses from her sleep. Santana lets out a muttered curse at her luck. Bleary Brittany rolls to her back and squints up at Santana, who remains frozen beside her, eyes darting toward the tent entrance. A groggy, and Santana thinks endearing, smile blooms across Brittany's face as she looks up at her through sleep-laden eyes.

"Need to pee?" Brittany asks through a yawn, realizing it's still very much dark out and the deep blush over Santana's cheeks can only mean one thing.

Santana needed to relieve herself.

So when Santana shakes her head, unable to meet her eyes and a muttered "no" passes through quieted lips, Brittany snaps awake.

She sits up sharply, Santana recoiling back at the abrupt move. The unlikely reaction spurs a new fear inside Brittany. She worries what could have changed so fast, why Santana is up at such an hour if it isn't a mere matter of nature. _What's happened?_

"San," Brittany whispers, reaching a hand out toward the scared woman.

"I have to _go_ ," Santana tells her, voice strained as she moves to her knees. The tone only makes Brittany's concern increase tenfold. She lunges forward, grabbing Santana gently by the arm before she can crawl out the tent. Santana stiffens under the touch, gaze deliberately set to the end of the bedroll. " _Please_ ," Santana requests. Begs. "I must leave."

Brittany scoots up beside her, entirely bewildered and upset at Santana's insistence. She'd asked her to stay last night; it is not even morn yet. And the quiver in the other woman's voice… it's heartbreaking. _What has she done?_

"Did I do something?" Brittany asks quietly as she releases Santana's arm.

The question, so simple in nature, pains Santana to have to hear. Brittany's done nothing wrong of course, not in the least. She turns, lungs stilled as she meets Brittany's wounded eyes.

"Emily says I always steal all the blankets," Brittany whispers, wringing the bottom of her shirt in her lap. "If I did I'm sorry, I don't—"

"Stop," Santana interrupts, tearing her gaze away. "You've done nothing."

"Then why are you—"

"The men are returning," Santana tells her, unwilling to hear the rest of Brittany's doubt manifest to words. "You can hear them, they're not far now. I have to be there for them."

"Oh," Brittany nods, understanding yet not quite believing Santana's reasoning. She can hear the regiment; of that much she knows to be true. But the way Santana's said it, the way she tried to leave… Brittany still does not understand. Regardless, she leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to Santana's cheek. It's hard to ignore the way Santana bristles and the shaky breath she exhales as Brittany pulls away. "Are you all right?"

It could be nerves, Brittany thinks, of why Santana is so suddenly withdrawn and yet entirely on edge all at once. But a part of her thinks otherwise. Santana has been preparing for the regiment's return for so long now. She was so meticulous in her work all day; so prideful in all she's arranged. And when Santana meets her gaze again, the brown eyes so obviously torn, Brittany feels she's missed something important. Something crucial changed while she slept.

And worse yet she can see Santana coiling further into herself, far faster than Brittany can hope to set things right. Whatever right may be now. But she must try.

"I'll… I'll see you tonight, yes?" Brittany ventures, so hopeful in her request. "I know you'll be busy with the soldiers and all but even the best must still eat. We could… have supper together?"

It takes Santana a moment to answer. She wishes not to bring more woe to the courier, cannot outright dim the light she's come to admire in those warm eyes. _But this cannot go on_. When she does find her voice her answer is noncommittal, cold and resigned. "Perhaps."

She leaves then before Brittany's eyes can pull her back in and she can fall into the other woman's arms as she wishes to. She bursts from the tent, the cold of the night air striking deep beneath her skin. A slap she feels is rightfully deserved. Her steps away start quick and it's not long till she's running. And sooner yet the tears she held back for so long begin to stain her cheeks.

The tent flap barely settles into place when Brittany sinks back to her heels, a sort of defeated numbness distorting her usual pert posture. She hasn't a clue what just transpired, nor how everything could crumble so quickly. Her thoughts of hours before spring to mind, an echo of her voice repeating dreadfully in her head _'nothing will be all right, not anymore_.'

Her body screams with fatigue, pulling her back down to her bedroll. She slumps into the blankets, her hand sliding over the still warm spot where Santana had mere moments before been resting beside her.

Happily.

Or so she thought anyway.

_Something's wrong_ , Brittany thinks to herself. _San's scared again…_

And as she succumbs to her exhaustion, anxiety pulling her swiftly into a restless sleep, she can't help but lament that even though they never saw battle, she feels as though she's somehow lost Santana anyway.

* * *

Santana has barely found the time to change her clothes when the first companies of men reenter the camp. She can hear them from inside her tent, their boisterous voices carrying loudly in the night air. A rush of relief fills her, making her dizzy when she realizes their voices carry with pride.

They return victorious.

Yet she knows despite the triumph there are still wounded to care for.

She doesn't quite feel herself; a veritable storm of emotions still whirls within her and leaves her hands trembling by her sides. Hoping to compose herself, she washes her face quickly in the basin and towels her skin dry. Her eyes land upon her reflection; a terrified girl she doesn't recognize stares wide-eyed back. She cannot walk into the medical tent like this, not still reeling from her night with Brittany and doubtful of her skills in the day ahead. She braces her hands against the table and leans toward the mirror. Her eyes narrow as she wills the woman staring back at her to change, to harden and pride herself.

_Don't think of her_ , she tells herself. _You will not shed another tear_ _. You will go to your post, show him your worth._ _You're not afraid._

It's that woman who hurries from the tent and into the awaiting madness that has consumed the medical wards. She allows herself but a second of shock. One tick of a pocket watch to stand horrified by the ravaged men pouring in an endless stream into the tent. She barely has time to process it all. A leg hanging loosely from a gutted knee. A naked back riddled with shrapnel. A screaming man being carried past her, his neck and mouth spurting blood.

It splashes down atop her boot; his gurgled cough splattering more upon her apron.

She's in motion in an instant.

"Take him to surgery!" she exclaims, pointing toward the operating tables she's arranged just a few feet away. The soldiers carrying the dying man look up at her, expressions hollowed and grim. Confusion knots their brows. She hasn't the time. "For God's sake you damn buffoons, he'll _die_ if you don't _hurry_!"

They quicken their pace at her command, thoughts of battle forgotten as they rush to get the man to the open table. She plunges into the chaos once they've gone from sight, directing field medics to supplies, assisting soldiers into cots, tending to as many of the more fatal injuries as she can. Her father bursts in moments later, coat bloodied and eyes blazing. His fierce gaze falters as he takes in the sight before him. It may be a mass of bodies and wails that could pierce any man's eardrum but there is order to it, a flow to the injured being ushered toward surgery, to the men he's patched in the battlefield now resting along cots in a wing that wasn't there a mere day prior. His eyes settle upon his daughter, standing amidst the chaos, staring at him with a calmness even he himself cannot muster.

She makes her way toward him, giving a nod of her head once she's within earshot. "Sir, your orders?" she asks, her body itching to dive back into her work.

Dr. Lopez notices a few of the surgeons he's been assigned from the field are staring at him expectantly. He falters for a moment, ears ringing before the noise of the tent seems to explode around him. He finds his focus upon his daughter's composed face. He may not need her, but he cannot deny she was right… the men do. "Surgery," he tells her gruffly. "Take a table. We need any hand that can be spared."

Santana is stunned by the command. Her father is ushered away quickly, shedding his coat upon the floor and rolling his shirtsleeves up as he disappears behind one of the curtains blocking an operating table from sight. There are four surgeons in total. Her father, two men who followed him from the battlefield to assist with the injured…

And she makes four.

Her father has included her in their ranks today.

To be given control, allowed her own operating table, is more than Santana could have dreamed. The elation beginning to course through her barely has time to register in her mind when one of the nurses approaches her, flustered and anxious as she awaits her next order. "Miss Santana? W-where do you need me?"

"Surgery," Santana breathes. She blinks, the commotion once more spurring her to motion as she turns to the nurse, grinning broadly. "Assist me in surgery."

* * *

Of the thousand some men in the regiment only a little over six hundred have returned. And of that six hundred, half of them now reside in and around the over-crowded medical tent. As she readies to perform yet another bullet extraction Santana can only imagine what the other regiments in the battle must have suffered in casualties. They'd returned victorious and yet the sheer number of wounded would assert otherwise.

_If this is a victory I fret to see what a loss would entail,_ she thinks as she focuses on removing a few shells from the shoulder of the unconscious soldier. This is the forty-third man she's seen upon her table today. She also thinks she'll never tire of calling this her table. But when she works she pushes aside the novelty of it and focuses on the task at hand. Her forceps move swiftly as she plucks another musket round from within the soldier's large muscle. He is one of the luckier ones. Had he been downed by minie bullets he would have been as good as dead the moment his body hit the ground. She's seen the ugly damage wrought by minie's. An ironic name, she thinks now, given the irrevocable damage the gaping wounds cause. Ten have died upon her table already from those shots. The others were all carried out, one or sometimes two limbs short of when they arrived. There is no repair for mercilessly smashed bones. She's lost track of how many amputations she's preformed. The soldier she operates on now may never have the dexterity in his right arm as he once must have, but he'll be able to keep it. More than likely he'll be sent home. Most all the men in the tent would be returning to their wives, mothers, sisters and families soon…. that is if they live through the coming days. They are useless to the infantry injured, and even more so if they required continuous treatment.

Santana knows she is just here to ensure they live long enough to see a true hospital. But she feels it unnecessary for them to have to wait so long for proper care. Not when she's perfectly capable of seeing to it herself. As she extracts the last bullet a numb sense of disbelief washes over her. Some men beyond her table are still writhing in pain, their screams for loved ones now hoarse and broken after a day spent in agony. Delirium surely setting in for many. She wishes to ease their suffering but must remain at her post. A surgeon is invaluable and there are already too few, their time spread far too thin. She blocks out the cries of the wounded, readying the soldier below for sutures. Despite the horror of everything unfolding around her today she keeps her wits.

She is not afraid.

Yet on more than one occasion she's found her thoughts drifting toward Brittany, disturbingly so, especially when her hands are buried inside the body cavity of yet another poor causality of war. But she forces herself to snap to whenever inklings of the courier creep into her mind. She's thankful for her table. Her work affords her a distraction from any thoughts which might otherwise plague her.

As two medics carry out the now bullet-free and meticulously stitched up soldier one of the nurses brings another young man inside her curtained partition. Santana must purse her lips to keep from gasping when she lays eyes on her next patient.

"Seen better days," Sam says with a forced chuckle as the nurse helps him to sit upon her operating table. "The morphine is helping some though." His face is pale, eyes concealing the pain she knows he must be enduring still despite the inhibitor he's received. How long has he been waiting to see someone? She washes her hands quickly. As he settles on the table he cradles his left arm to his chest, blood soaked straight through the bandage wrapped haphazardly around his elbow. Santana can see the tips of his fingers, already a stark pale yellow in comparison with the rest of his lively pallor. Circulation is already lost.

She thinks perhaps she may be able to save his arm yet.

She gives him a confident smile. "Glad to see you made it through."

"Wish I could say the same for all of us," he says quietly, wincing as Santana gently takes his arm and begins to unwrap the bandages. Yet she stills in her work, gaze meeting Sam's as his tone registers in her head. He doesn't simply mean the regiment.

"Sam?" she asks, hesitant of his answer.

"The cannon round messed up my arm real good," he can't meet her eyes as he speaks. His lips thin as he chokes out, "F-Finn, he got me out of the w-way but—"

Santana swallows thickly, stilled by the admission. It was clear that Sam held Finn in high regard; the boys were obviously good, if not the best of, friends. She can't imagine what it must feel like, to lose someone so close… to see them die in such a _violent_ way. A flash of her dream flickers in her mind's eye. Her heart runs cold as she slams her eyes shut against the visions. But she can't shake the image free; can't get those lifeless blue eyes to stop haunting her so.

"Apologies," Sam sniffles, rubbing at his nose with his good hand as he gives Santana a hopeful yet subdued smile. She's snapped from her troubling thoughts at his voice. "I must be holding you up with—"

"You're not," Santana tells him, shaking her head as she gets back to work. Her nurse is by her side, collecting the soiled bandages as she lays them to the table. Santana thinks she must say something, and so tells Sam, "I'm sorry though, about Finn. He seemed a good fellow."

"He was," Sam smiles, glad for the sentiments as Santana carefully unwraps his arm. As his bloodied and bruised skin is revealed he swallows down the bile rising in his throat at the sight and quickly looks away.

"It's not so bad," Santana teases, hoping to lighten his mood. Yet as the last of the sticky bandages are pulled aside she realizes it's quite bad indeed. Sam's elbow is entirely shattered, the joint irrevocably mangled as his bones pierce through his skin. She looks up at Sam, the expression upon her face conveying to him the news he's been dreading since arriving back at camp.

"Just take it," he tells her shakily.

She nods, no more words exchanged as the nurse hands her the sterilized saw. The handle is still warm and Santana can't help but think of the countless others today that have met the end of the serrated blades. Sam settles back down on the table, the nurse quick to administer a small amount of chloroform. They're already starting to run low and Santana knows she must be quicker in her work. The small dose will only keep him under for ten minutes at most. He'll be in pain after, but she hopes her skill with the blade may see to it he's given as much comfort in his recovery as can be deemed possible given the circumstances.

She hopes he knows that he's in good hands.

Santana sets her saw aside and flushes the wound clean with fresh water, her nurse already prepared to blot it dry with a new cloth. Santana wonders for a moment where best to mark her incision point. There will need to be enough skin to fold over once the arm is severed, and the mangled mess of Sam's elbow makes it all the harder. But the clock is ever ticking, and thus she plucks the scalpel from her kit and slices cleanly through an optimal point on Sam's lower bicep muscle.

She picks up the saw next.

They've run out of spare ties.

Sweat dots her nurses heavy brow as the woman grabs tight to Sam's bicep.

And Santana takes a calming breath before she brings the saw down.

The sounds of celebration carry in from outside the tent, bolstering the spirits of those trapped in their broken bodies within. They do little to mute the sounds of Sam's flesh and bone being torn asunder as her blade cuts through his upper arm. Santana tries not to focus on it, instead noting the clink the bottles beneath the table make every time she drives the saw forward. She's lost track of how many bottles of liquor are now piled beneath her operating table, stolen by her nurse aides from inebriated soldiers clumsily stumbling through the throng of wounded in hopes of giving their friends some cheer. The cheer, she doesn't mind. What she does is when the soldiers trip and foul up her perfectly constructed splints upon her calmly-resting patients. They aren't so clam after, and neither is she as she chases them out.

She thinks she'll sneak Sam a bottle though; if anything it'll definitely help him sleep better tonight.

She's just finished severing his arm above the elbow when one of the nurses pokes her head through the curtain and calls for Santana's attention.

She turns raising a brow in question as she deposits of the arm in the proffered bucket. She doesn't want to look at it. It will only remind her of what Sam's lost.

He was such a fine fiddler.

"You have a visitor," the nurse informs.

"I'll be out in a moment," Santana tells her, about to ready Sam for bone filing when one of the younger medics arrives, sewing kit in hand. He doesn't even bother asking for permission as he sets to smoothing down Sam's bone and thus shortly after suturing the wound in her place. Santana sputters, aghast at his intrusion but more so his speed. She opens her mouth to lash into him when she notices his skill with a needle is unmatched. He looks up at her, brow raised as she continues staring. "Carry on," she mutters for she realizes he's only here to help.

There are still so many in need of aid...

He gives a nod and an infuriatingly warm smile before turning back to his, dare she call it, impeccable work. She spins upon her heels and stalks up to the washbasin. She is not envious of that Asian bastard. Not one bit, she tells herself as she furiously scrubs free any remnants of Sam's blood that could linger upon her skin. As she dries her hands she peers back at the medic. She won't tell him so but she's pleased and thankful for his help. It is clear he is skilled and what more treating Sam with the utmost care. She can't help but feel it's almost as if he sensed she needed a moment away. She hasn't had a break since early this morn and feels well overdue for one now. With one last look to Sam she ducks out from the operating space.

She is unprepared for who waits for her.

Brittany stands, a few paces from the last of the men sitting outside the tent, her eyes saddened as they take in the pained faces of those before her. Santana can't help but think Brittany looks much like them. The courier's uniform is disheveled; a thick layer of dirt sticks to her knees and arms. The usual light in her eyes is dulled, expression exhausted. Yet when those haunting blue eyes land upon Santana, a hopeful glint springs to them, and a beautifully shy grin forms on her mouth.

It makes Santana's heart twist.

Brittany holds up two cups, a clear invitation to dine with her as she'd requested earlier.

Santana hadn't even realized it was nearing dark already.

Brittany watches as Santana approaches her, eyes unable to hold the other woman's gaze for long. Not when they hanker to wander across the doctor's frame, to assure herself that Santana's all right. She hasn't seen the other woman all day and has spent a great majority of her time fretting for her. She can't imagine what Santana must have endured in that tent, all day, working alongside her callous father. The bloodshed she had to witness. The countless lives in need of saving. There were so many hurt… still hurting even now. And yet despite it all, Santana walks toward her with a distinctive air of pride in her step. Brittany's relieved to see her holding up so well. She's sure she doesn't have half the strength to face what Santana must have today. She's proud of the doctor. Though worried. Santana's hair is in wiry disarray, haphazardly tied in a bun, and her once immaculate dress is smeared with blood.

It's far more blood than even she expected.

"San," Brittany gulps once the other woman stops a few paces in front of her. Her senses are bombarded with the metallic smell clinging to Santana's body. _Blood of those she's helped_ , Brittany reasons even as her stomach grows queasy. She cringes despite herself, nose scrunching as she takes a step toward Santana, eyes still locked upon the bloody dress. She's beyond worried now. "You—"

"I've been quite busy," Santana interrupts. She keeps her voice as even as she can. The concern dripping from Brittany's tone is jarring. Unwelcome. She tucks some hair behind her ear and motions towards the cups in Brittany's hands. "I can't join you."

Brittany nods, understanding, yet her expression drops every so slightly. "That's all right, you have to help them," she says quietly, gaze meeting Santana's once more. She extends out a cup of soup to the doctor. _A true doctor today_ , she thinks with a small smile. "This is for you. I put it in a cup, that way it's easier for you to eat. I thought you might be hungry…"

It's a sweet gesture, one even Santana feels herself softening over. "Thank you," she mutters, cheeks flushed as she reaches up to accept the meal. Her hand brushes against Brittany's as she wraps her fingers around the cup, that same striking feeling piercing her gut at the touch. Brittany is smiling as her eyes flicker up, locking upon briefly panicked brown.

_You mustn't!_ Santana exclaims to herself.

She pulls away sharply, some of the soup spilling upon her gory apron as she backs away.

"Santana, I—" Brittany begins to apologize but is quickly silenced when she notices Dr. Lopez approaching them from over Santana's shoulder. She gives him a courteous nod as he stops before them, shrinking a bit under the intensity of his gaze. It is clear he does not think much of her and she doesn't want to give him more reason to dislike her. And especially any more reason to harm Santana.

Santana cannot move. She is sure her father has come out here to berate her for abandoning her post. A post he saw fit to grant her. How foolish it was to have come out here! She opens her mouth, apology already formed when he holds up a hand, silencing her words upon her tongue.

"We're done here," he says, voice layered with stress and a reproachful gaze directed at the courier. Brittany says nothing, her own eyes rooted to the ground. Dr. Lopez finds Bret disturbingly pathetic. And what more, not worth a second more of his time. He rolls his shoulders, spine cracking with relief as he focuses upon Santana. "God holds the rest in his care," he says with a glance back toward the tent. "See to it you are with them come morn. I'll need a count of those who passed during the night."

With that said he takes his leave, leaving the two women standing in silence once more. Santana doesn't know quite what to make of the encounter. In fact she doesn't know what's come over her father since he returned from the battle field. He is his usual bitter self, of that much remains the same, but of his overall intentions toward her... dare she think them supportive? _Fatherly_ , even. Brittany shifts in front of her, readjusting the soot dusted cap atop her head. Santana is brought back to the present at the move. She knows come morning there will be more graves to dig and more injured to attend to. As she looks up at Brittany she thinks perhaps she can join her for one last meal.

It is the least she can give her.

Brittany deserves far more though, she thinks.

So Santana gives her a smile, one Brittany is pained to see doesn't reach her eyes, as she asks, "Where did you want to have supper?"

* * *

They eat in a tense silence near a fire behind Burt's tent, far from prying eyes. Santana's ears are still ringing with the noise of the medical ward as she sips the soup Brittany thoughtfully saw to fill into a cup instead of a bowl. It's cold, the blonde obviously having delayed before finding her. Santana wishes to think it was her own doing that kept Brittany waiting, and not as she fears, some other force. She'd be lying if she said she wasn't concerned for the dirt she spots beneath the courier's short nails. _What has she been doing all day?_

Santana clears her throat, uncomfortable in this new dynamic that has formed between them. "Did you sleep well?"

Brittany's eyes don't leave the fire as she replies, "I slept."

The words do little to ease Santana's mounting unease. "Did you have to run a telegram out?"

"No," Brittany answers, her voice low, heavy with an emotion Santana's never heard, as if the courier is bracing herself against something painful. She watches as Brittany swallows thickly, eyes shinning with unshed tears. "Mister Hummel and I, along with some of the other cavalry boys, were sent out to…" she trails off, taking a deep breath as she looks up, meeting Santana's troubled eyes. Brittany chokes at the look. "T-to _dispense_ of the injured horses. After they were _shot_ I spent my afternoon burning their bodies in fires. It was…" It _is_ the single most unpleasant thing she feels she's ever had to do.

Something she'll _never_ be able to forget.

And Santana knows this. Brittany loves those animals. When the blonde wasn't speaking at length of Emily she spoke at length of Apple. Piedmont, Ranger, Lulu. _Good god,_ Santana thinks, she knows more horses in this camp than actual men. All thanks to Brittany. She can't imagine how traumatic it must have been for her to see them killed in such cold blood. And then to have to be the one to burn them? Santana's heart goes out to Brittany. Unlike the courier, she's had the training to prepare herself for what she underwent today. For the countless human bodies she's seen in tatters upon her operating table. Brittany though… Brittany's never had to witness such horror. Especially to creatures that bring her so much happiness.

"Britt…" Santana whispers. "I'm sorry. I didn't—"

"I don't want to remember it," Brittany snaps, eyes once more focused upon the flames. She puts down her soup cup, her appetite gone.

Santana doesn't quite know what to say to her. She hates seeing Brittany so defeated and feels much as she did last night when she tried so hard to bring comfort to the heartbroken woman. She stops herself before she can set her soup down in order to reach out and embrace Brittany. _Why did you agree to this supper?_ she asks herself. What mustn't she allow herself to feel anymore?

She still cannot stand to see Brittany so desolate though. She wishes to see Brittany more her effervescent self and feels a change of conversation is in need.

"I saw Sam," she says, pleased when Brittany's expression perks, hope once more resting in those warm blue eyes. "I had to remove his left arm but he'll be all right. Puckerman is barely scratched, of course," she adds with a chuckle.

"And Finn?" Brittany implores.

Santana quiets and gives a slight shake of her head.

Brittany stares at her for a moment, unblinking. She expected as much; really, she had. Knowing so doesn't hurt any less though. _Nothing is all right_. "I don't feel like we won," Brittany confesses.

"You're not alone," Santana tells her. And when the heavy silence returns Santana once again feels inclined to lighten Brittany's spirits. With a smile she turns to the saddened woman. "I do have some better news to share," she says, unable to keep the excitement from leaking into her voice. "I think my father may allow me to practice medicine with him back in Cincinnati."

"San, that's…" Brittany begins to say, a grin breaking across her face. "That's what you've always wanted!"

Santana's cheeks burn under Brittany's thrilled expression. The other woman is sincerely happy for her, despite all that's marred them today. She feels herself relaxing some, easily falling back into their harmony. "It was, but after today I think," _no, I know_ , "I want my _own_ practice."

And Brittany beams at Santana as only Santana thinks she can. It makes Santana feel far more proud than any sentiment her father could ever give her; than any operating table granted to her control. She doesn't even realize when her hand finds Brittany's, their fingers so easily linking together. Not until the smile on Brittany's face falls at the move, and blue eyes stare, clouded, down at their joined hands.

Santana tries to pull away, but Brittany holds tight. "What is this, Santana?"

Santana's eyes dart around them, fearful of any who could pass. She twists her wrist. "Brittany, stop."

Quieter still Brittany asks, "Why does it scare you?"

Santana bristles, temper rising. "Do you even know what this is? How unnat—"

"I love you," Brittany declares. "I know that much. What more is there to understand?"

Only three words resonate in Santana's head as she stares, wide-eyed and terrified back at Brittany. No one, not one soul upon this earth has ever uttered those three words to her. And for them to come from Brittany _so easily_ , without the slightest hesitation… this, more than anything, scares Santana beyond belief. She wishes she found it so simple. That she could live in the rose-colored world Brittany inhabits. Where one is free from the stigmas of society and where she too could proudly admit how much she cares for the blonde. But that is not their world. And nor will it ever be.

Santana sits, frozen by the reality she now faces. A deep part of her clings to those three words. Clings to the world Brittany could promise her. Brittany loves her… but _here_ , _now_ …this cannot go on.

Santana's silence strikes Brittany hard. She can't read the expression upon the doctor's face. It's blank, utterly blank. The look frightens Brittany. _To feel nothing at all?_ She never expected such a numb reaction. Reluctance, surely. Delight, a hope. But _nothing_? It's as if she's right back in that field, watching those horses burn all over again.

"You don't…" is uttered as nothing more than a dismayed whisper.

Santana feels like one of her patients, lying prone upon a table as a sharpened scalpel is driven straight through her heart.

She reacts without thought, shaking her head as she whispers quickly, "I _do_ care for you."

Brittany is growing exasperated. And what more, frustratingly confused. "Then _what's_ upsetting you?"

"I care for you as I should _a man_!" Santana exclaims in hushed impatience. She focuses back up to Brittany, willing for the other woman to understand her reasoning. "You must see how…how _impossible_ it would be for us to carry on like this."

"I don't." Brittany blinks, uncomprehending. _It isn't impossible_ , she thinks; they carried on just fine the night prior. She'll never forget their kiss or the soft smile upon Santana's lips as she drifted to sleep in her arms. That couldn't have been a lie. It was too real.

Santana buries her face in her hands as she lets out another loud groan. "You don't see because you refuse to think of the consequences!"

Brittany counters, "I don't because everyone thinks I'm a man."

Santana lets her hands fall back to her lap as she stares over at Brittany through narrowed eyes. " _You're not Bret with me_ ," she hisses.

"Is that what you're afraid of?" Brittany scoots closer, noting the flash of panic in Santana's eyes as she does. She stops short, leaning in as she whispers softly, "being with me because I'm a woman?"

Santana lets her eyes fall close as her chin drops. Brittany thinks she's never looked smaller. "Yes…" Santana admits, voice trembling. She glances up at Brittany, the courier moving closer still at the fright reflected back at her in the brown eyes. Santana can smell the dirt upon Brittany's clothes… the smoke of the fires. It calms her somehow, even with the horror that those pyres brought to Brittany. The other woman is close to her, so close. It would be so easy to lean into her. So simple to give in to what she wants. _Remember why you're here_ , she wills to herself. Sitting straighter, she slides from Brittany, picking up her soup so as to keep her hands from trembling so. "It doesn't matter," she says, hoping her tone conveys her detachment. "We could never be together as women."

Brittany doesn't believe the façade Santana has so suddenly put on. Nor the way the doctor blows cautiously at her obviously cold soup. With a knowing smile she tells her, "You kissed me just fine as one."

Santana meets her bright gaze, unwavering. "Everyone thinks you're a _man_."

"But you don't," Brittany's brow crinkles as she mulls the response over. She feels Santana has sent her roundabout. "This is getting confusing."

Santana feels there is only one way to finally get her point across. Bluntly she asks, "Brittany, when this war is said and done, if you still feel for me as you _claim_ you do now, what shall happen then?"

"Well, you can be a doctor anywhere right?" Brittany asks, expression thoughtful as a calm smile crosses her lips. She looks over at Santana, hopeful as she tells her, "I'd ask if you'd like to come home with me, to Lima."

Again Santana feels her heart sinking further into Brittany's reality.

"In Lima you're known as a _woman_ ," she emphasizes and then motions between them. " _This_ is impossible."

"It's not," Brittany says, adamant. "I'd give up skirts and dresses for you. I spend most of my time on the farm in slacks anyway."

"Britt, you shouldn't have to pretend to be a man. That's the _point_!" Santana cries. But Brittany keeps staring at her with those hopeful eyes, wearing that easy smile and waiting, waiting so patiently for Santana to see what's sitting right in front of her. To see the very thing Santana is so much trying to turn away from. And Santana, with all her walls and all her pride is trying so desperately to let go of Brittany's hope. To let go of her wonderful reality even though she knows it's already firmly planted in her heart. It has been, she realizes, ever since they sat beside one another in front of that fire, Brittany smelling of fresh soap and Santana already weary of her closeness.

Santana doesn't even realize that she's started to cry, not until Brittany reaches forward, plucking the cup away from her, and gently takes hold of her shivering hands.

"We can't…" Santana whimpers, shaking her head despite tightening her hold on Brittany's hand. "If someone _hurt_ you, if… We just… _can't_."

Brittany has moments of sublime clarity sometimes. They're rare and have thus far only come when she's been wrought with emotion to the point of paralysis. It's terrifying. She remembers when her mother died. When her father came to wake her and she'd clung to him, begging the tears in his eyes not to fall so. They didn't nor did her cries stop the words from leaving his mouth. Every detail of that moment is so burned to her memory that even now she can feel the scrape of the wood floor along her palms. Hear her father trying to temper his breathing, every forth breath sucked between his teeth with a stutter. His eyes were empty of all she'd come to love of him. She remembers staring over his shoulder as he held her, unable to focus and yet seeing so clearly that there were twelve panels of wallpaper along their hall. Something she'd never paid attention to before became so suddenly important.

Nothing would ever be the same.

She'd not wake the next day to jump into her mother's arms. Never see her smile. Never help her to milk the cows in the barn as they'd done just a mere few weeks prior. There would be nothing. Nothing and yet everything still lay before them. They would still carry on. She could see herself jumping into her parents' bed, only one lump sleeping beneath the quilt to stir. She could see herself, stealing into her father's drawer to pour over the only photograph remaining that captured her mother's smile. And she knew, tomorrow, she'd be sitting in the barn, an empty stool collecting dust somewhere behind her, as she milked the cows alone.

She hadn't had a moment like that since. The closest she came was last night, fearing so much for the broken words she could decipher from her father's letter. But then Santana had come, and with it her hope renewed. That hope so quickly dashed with her retreat this early morn. Brittany understands now what is plaguing Santana so.

And now, with that hurtful last word Santana uttered echoing so painfully in her head she can feel that same clarity taking hold of her mind.

_Can't._

_No!_ She wants to shout. She won't accept can't. Not when they've found one another; when they're _here_.

Oh, how absolutely vivid and sharp she can see everything before her at the thought! See warm brown eyes overcome with hesitation and defeat. Tan fingers tied so desperately to her own dirtied hand. A deep crease marring a soft brow. The crackle of the fire snapping in juxtaposition to the creaks of the log against Santana's nervous shifts. She does not want for Santana to fret, not over something as simple as love.

Their eyes meet. Brittany notices they aren't just brown, but something darker, deeper. She sees the world in those eyes.

And tomorrow she knows she'll see the same.

It is that simple.

So she takes both Santana's fidgeting hands and fits them with her own, allowing her palms to press solidly against the hesitancy she can feel trying to pull Santana back into herself.

She won't let her run away. Not again. She won't accept _can't_.

"Everyone may think me a man but I love you as I _am,"_ she tells her with hushed conviction _._ "And I ain't stopping. I won't let anyone hurt us. Not ever."

Santana draws a deep, shuddering breath into her lungs, pulling Brittany's words far inside her. Her eyes dart to her sides as she finds herself leaning forward and whispering, "Brittany, we ca—"

Brittany holds her hands tighter, blue eyes burning ardently into wavering brown. "I love you _as I am_."

Santana closes her eyes as her forehead comes to rest against Brittany's. She clings to the other woman's strength. "Britt…"

" _I love you_ ," Brittany repeats to her.

Santana whimpers when Brittany's lips meet her own.

And what more, she doesn't pull away.


	8. The Coming Fall

The sun has long since set over the camp nestled in the valley of Mackville. And despite the darkness now descended upon the encampment the celebrations carry on without hindrance. The men cannot contain their elation at returning victorious – nay, they cannot contain their _relief_ that they have returned at all. The camp is positively alight with merrymaking. Voices are full of pride and triumph, and bellies full of food and drink. Bottles upon bottles of beer, bourdon, and cheap whiskey line the ground, drained and forgotten. Fires roar high and proud into the night sky above. " _Let them see our smoke!"_ is the cry shouted into the surrounding trees.

Brittany can't help but feel separated from the joy of her fellow soldiers, unable to be swept into the merriment like so many. She feels more in tune with the men who seek solace in their tents. Those who suffered loss today, whose wounds are still fresh and hearts still clenched with grief. She whispers a prayer for the horses and Finn as she scuttles past a group of soldiers dancing.

She wishes to sleep her troubles away, god knows she hasn't had much rest the past few nights. But she's been deftly avoiding heading back to her tent. After escorting Santana back to her quarters so that the doctor could get the rest that she'll need for the coming morn, Brittany has taken to wandering the camp. It was hard to say goodnight to the doctor, given how wonderful Brittany had slept with Santana by her side. But the stubborn woman was adamant she be left alone tonight and even placed a soft kiss upon Brittany's cheek to reassure the courier before disappearing inside her dark tent.

It's Santana's parting words that cause Brittany now to steer clear of her own quarters.

" _Tomorrow, meet me for breakfast. I'll help you with that letter, all right?"_

_The letter…_

She knows that when she returns to her small tent, the ill-fated words of her father are all that awaits her. Last night she tried so hard to put her thoughts to paper, to pen words of hope back home to him. And yet for every stoke she made she'd recall just why she was writing in the first place and crumble the note before her tears could stain the page any further. She can't tell him to be brave, not when she herself feels so broken.

This is how Noah finds her; sitting on the fringe of a fire pit, tears blurring her eyes as she watches some of the boys drunkenly start a circle dance.

Bret looks about as miserable as he feels, Noah thinks. _And misery does love company_.

"'Em graybacks didn' stan' nooo _chance_ agains-us!" Noah boasts, speech slurred as he takes a giant swig of his beer and allows himself to fall to his knees beside her. Brittany grabs him before he topples over face-first to the dirt below, steadying him beside her.

"Careful Noah," she tells him, mindful of keeping her voice low. She eyes his drink. "How much you have tonight?"

Noah's face scrunches as he tries to reason the amount. But he feels it arbitrary, giving a laugh instead as he downs the rest in a single swoop. He tosses his empty mug aside, wobbling a bit where he sits as he turns to Brittany and asks through a crooked smirk, "Where's your high-falu'in honey at?"

Brittany allows a small smile, knowing he means Santana. "Sleeping," she tells him.

A light blush spreads across her cheeks as she thinks of the woman. The kiss they shared is seared in the front of her mind. It only lasted but a moment, a soft pressure of lips. And yet in that touch she could feel Santana melting against her. Yielding. Accepting. Without a doubt she knows now that the doctor feels the same for her. It's one of the only thoughts currently bringing her any comfort; a lingering flutter of happiness that settles warmly in her heart.

She's torn from her memory when Noah claps her hard on the back, laughing again as he slurs out, "Bully for you Bret! Don' know how you got tha' one! Top rail she is… and those breas—"

"Noah!" Brittany admonishes, face beet red. "Don't talk of San like that."

He shrugs, a brazen smile plastered across his lips. "San, eh?" He chuckles. "You two gettin' sparkin'. I could see it wif my own two eyes!"

"You only _have_ two," Brittany points out, amused as he leans drunkenly against her side. She pushes him back upright, forcing her giggles into as masculine a sound as she can muster while he hiccups. "You're sloshed, go to bed," Brittany tells him, giving his shoulder a gentle shove. He sways but rights himself. The laugh she anticipates never rumbles out from his throat. He grows incredibly still beside her, eyes glazed as he focuses to the fire. "Noah?" Brittany ventures, cautious as she lays a hand over his suddenly tense shoulders.

"I'm not sleepin', no," he mutters, voice thick with unshed tears.

Brittany scoots closer, giving his shoulder a comforting squeeze. "Are there snakes in your bed too?"

Noah's expression scrunches again, this time with utter confusion. He swipes his sleeve below his nose, sniffling loudly as he tells her, "No… just—" his words catch painfully in his throat. And softer yet he continues, "He was better 'an any brother…"

_Finn._ Of course he doesn't want to sleep, Brittany thinks sadly. Not when she knows they shared a tent.

Though, she laments, she has no words of comfort to impart upon him. If she could be herself she'd wrap him in a hug, tell him that one day things won't feel so hopeless. But even now she holds back, merely giving his shoulder a soothing rub. There's nothing she could ever say to him tonight that will fill the void that Finn's death has left inside him.

Just like there was nothing her father could do or say to replace the hurt left inside her by her mother's death.

Sometimes you just have to be empty for a while.

She sits by Noah, giving him a solid presence. They stay that way for a period, Brittany simply holding Noah upright as he finally allows his tears to fall. Together they watch the men stumble in their steps, their dance far less graceful after a night with bottles tipped to their mouths.

"Thank you," Noah mutters quietly after some time. His eyes turn up to Brittany's, tears still evident in his glassy gaze, but the despair they once held has subdued. He manages a shaky smile. "I make shoddy company t'night."

"No," Brittany tells him with a soft smile. "You make great company."

"Ya shouldn't be _anyone's_ company tonight!" a voice exclaims out from just to their side. Brittany bristles at the sound. Of course Scott Cooper would find her now. She pays him no mind as he stumbles over, a limp to his step and bloodied bandages wrapped over his left ear. She feels a bit of pity for him at the loss, but it's quickly pushed aside when he opens his mouth once more. He spits out a dark stain of chewing tobacco atop her knee, snarling as he continues, "It should have been _you_ on that line, _damned_ _coward_."

"'Ey now!" Noah hollers, trying to muster strength to his wobbly legs. Brittany shakes her head at him, holding him down as she turns her gaze up to Cooper.

"I earned my place," she tells him evenly. " _Same as you_."

He has nothing to say in response, knowing full well the truth to the words. His face burns red with embarrassment; teeth working hard against his tobacco. What he wouldn't give to wipe the look of conviction from Bret Pierce's face. To send what he feels would be a rather deserving punch into the nose of the poorest excuse for a man, let alone a courier, he's ever seen. He holds his tongue though when Noah drunkenly demands,

"So quit your jawing and get already!" Noah throws out his arm at Cooper. He looks in confusion at his empty hand until he realizes he hadn't exactly launched anything at Cooper aside from air. _Where'd my mug get to?_

Cooper lets out a grunt, rolling his eyes at Noah before taking his leave. He knows better than to attempt another fight with the man, even given his drunken disposition. Brittany eyes Cooper as he retreats. She always had an inkling that he was simply envious of her position but it's only now she realizes just how spot on her assumptions were. Couriers were protected from the field of battle, safe from being sent into a fight. Of course there were men who wished to be in her place instead. They'd be a fool not to. But he's right, she thinks with a sigh. She is a coward. She would never have been able to stand on that line beside the other men. To hold up a rifle, awaiting orders to fire whilst a hundred some Southerners blazed toward you. Brittany's entirely sure she would have died of panic before the first shot was even fired.

Or fled.

_A right coward you are._

She looks over to Noah, whose eyes are bleary and glaring unsteadily at Cooper. _He stood on that line,_ she thinks _._ Without a second thought she gives him a tight hug. He seems surprised by the embrace, mind still buzzing with alcohol even as Bret pulls away, giving his shoulder a rather strong, awkward, pat.

But before he can even ask why Bret was so suddenly compelled to affection, the quick, uneven patter of feet behind them distracts him.

"Bret, there you are, boy," Burt says as he comes across the pair. Brittany notices there's a certain weariness to his stance today but she feels the same could be said for a lot of the men in camp. She is quick to jump to her feet upon sight of the note clasped in Burt's hand. A shock of prickles roll down her legs, blood rushing to fill her sleeping feet. It leaves her feeling jittery-legged as she steps forward matching the anxiety she feels now pooling low in her gut.

_Again? Already?_

"Tonight?" she asks, trying to muster as much confidence into her tone as he hands her the letter.

But Burt sees through the pretense. He truly does hate having to send Bret out so soon. He gives a deep sigh, "I'm afraid it's urgent. Lexington again."

"But Peidmont—"

Burt smiles softly. "I know you'd be worried for him so I've arranged for you to use Bennett's mare."

"Lulu," Brittany recalls. "I like her. She has pretty spots."

"Well, she's all set for you by my quarters," Burt says, indicating over his shoulder with a jab of his thumb. But his eyes are trained upon Bret's, trying to gauge whether he's truly all right to be heading out again so soon. It is clear his charge was tired, and he fears sending him out without a full proper night's rest. But orders are orders, and the General had asked for Pierce specifically. He watches as Bret gives a nod and then turns down to the soldier upon the ground.

"You'll be all right, Noah?" Brittany asks as she squats back down beside the slightly swaying man.

"Course," Noah says, giving her a grin. And with a wink adds, "I'll watch over 'er for ya."

"Don't upset her," she chuckles, standing once more. She feels all right leaving him by himself. Especially now with him in much better spirits. With a quick farewell Brittany walks away with Burt, the two heading down the row in silence back toward Burt's quarters. That is until from the corner of Brittany's eyes she catches sight of Santana's darkened tent. She stops suddenly in her tracks.

"Mister Hummel, is it all right if…?" she begin to ask but Burt is already smiling, eyes also focused to the doctor's tent as he gives her a nod.

"Don't stall now," he tells her with a chuckle. "I don't want to have to come in there to pry you away."

Brittany feels herself blushing, even as she breathes out thanks and takes off toward Santana's tent. She'd left once without saying a proper goodbye and thinks she'd rather a leg be taken than to ever do so again.

* * *

Inside the Lopez tent Santana is finding it impossible to sleep and for once it has nothing to do with the loud snores of her father. It's been hours, she thinks, since her parting with Brittany. Hours spent lying in a range of fidgeting positions upon her cot, mind reeling and thoughts unable to pause long enough for sleep to take her. She'd asked to be left alone tonight because she needs this time to sort out everything that has occurred between the courier and her. She can't concentrate with Brittany near, let alone attempt to rationalize all that entails. All she knows is that she failed, spectacularly, in doing the one thing she'd been so adamant at discontinuing.

And what is keeping her awake now, what is causing her stomach to churn and chest to tighten is that she's not entirely opposed to the failure.

She can't stop replaying their evening by the fire inside her head. At this point she feels it superfluous to even try stopping the images.

It's not that she really minds the thoughts of Brittany. If anything, they distract her from the jarring sounds her father makes in his sleep. The woman is beautiful. Santana can't deny that fact. And somehow the courier manages to remain so even with soot smudged across her cheeks and eyes puffy from earlier tears. No, Santana doesn't mind admiring Brittany. What she does mind, what _truly_ bothers her, is the feelings that those thoughts stir within her.

Attraction in itself is an observation, something intangible. She can excuse a wandering eye, appreciate a pleasing form. It was human nature to be curious. But the sensations that her attraction to the courier rouse within her feel far too real and far too substantial. Enough to keep her tossing and turning instead of getting the sleep she so desperately craves.

_Or that other thing you crave…_

Santana groans and rolls to her stomach, burying her face deep into her pillow. She very much craves returning to Brittany's tent and spending a full, undisturbed night wrapped in long arms on a lumpy bedroll. _Perhaps with some minor touching of sorts…_ That thought, of course, leaves her feeling flustered and heated. And entirely exasperated with herself.

_Because let us face some encumbering facts,_ she tells herself. _You are a horrible, unhinged, coward of a human who crumbles like a god damned toddler the minute she touches you. Why? Because some cruel god has seen to it that you care for her and she loves you and for some reason you cannot stop yourself from allowing it!_

She thinks this could all have been avoided if Bret was truly real. But the truth is Santana cares not one iota for the male form, a facet of herself she hadn't really bothered to acknowledge until recently. Not until a scatterbrained courier was left in her ward with a broken shoulder and a pocket full of unread letters from home. Would she have gone out her way to help Bret like she did Brittany?

Santana sighs inwardly for she knows she would not have. And while she can't quite accept that she cares for Brittany the way she should for a man, she's not as panicked over the verity as she was before. Brittany had seen to that a mere few hours prior with simple vindication and promising eyes. Santana surrendered to those words and the assurances they held. And now… she sighs, now that she is alone with her thoughts, her feelings seem impossible once again.

It's almost unfair, really, how atrociously her life has unraveled thus far. And now chance has deemed to make it worse. She's envious, almost, of her more sordid nurse aid. That woman holds no qualms about whose bed she shares and even delights in the retelling of her nights, much to her innocent counterpart's dismay. Santana always feigns disinterest when she prattles on, partly because she doesn't care and partly because she wishes she could see in men what her nurse does.

But no, life has seen to it that Santana sees in Brittany what her nurse sees in men.

She hates that she cannot control this want in herself. It makes her feel weak, being so enraptured by another person. Let alone a woman, and a good-hearted one at that.

There has to be some reason, some way to explain the unnatural affections born within her for the courier. She's always prided herself in her logic. It is the only unfailing thing about her. That and perhaps her figure when she's indulging the more vain of her thoughts. But she is used to seeing life in terms of simple medical mechanics, therefore every emotion and desire fell within the same rubrics. Chemical reactions could always be explained.

If Brittany loves her and she feels uncouthly warm because of it she cannot be blamed for the fact that her nerves have lost their damned minds.

She can't help having been born with malfunctioning bits. She is a lot like Captain Briggs in that sense, she thinks. He can't help having been born with a neural disorder, being just that much different… broken.

And while on that train of thought, Brittany's mind is certainly a thing of chemical chaos. She is, after all _,_ in the habit of being easily confused. Was she born without properly firing synapses or has she fallen from Apple's back on one too many an occasion?

Does anything she says therefore have any credibility?

Who's to say she really meant love in the romantic sense? Thus far, Brittany has professed love for the following things in Santana's presence: Emily, Hendrick and horses… well, those were a given. But the rest? There was milk, warm milk, the color yellow (or of piss as Santana had pointed out, much to Brittany's opposition), all the oddly named animals upon her farm, ducks, swimming, dancing, large hats, swooshy dresses ("come again?"), storybooks, _unicorns_ and the list carries on so endlessly Santana is starting to think perhaps love isn't quite the word Brittany had meant to use.

_She's obviously confused._

A strong liking is perhaps what she'd meant. _I strongly like you as I am_ , Santana says to herself, wincing upon realizing it just is not the same. There is a way to Brittany's speech, a stilling gravity to her tone that, even given the simple nature of her words, their meaning is unmistakable. Brittany loves her, undoubtedly, in the way a gentleman does a lady. And Santana knows Brittany's never spoken of milk, or ducks or anything the way she spoke to her of love.

Touches her as if it were a whisper. Kisses her like a lover.

There is no pretense, no disguise of her emotions. She wears everything as openly as the smile upon her lips.

Santana relents, _I care for her, she loves me and—_

Something small thuds against the tent wall to her side and she gives a muffled yelp in surprise. She quirks a brow and turns her head, watching as the fabric dents upon the impact of something from outside, a soft smack echoing into the night.

Her father carries on snoring.

" _San_?"

Her irritation is quick to abscond at the voice. A smile breaks across her face in its stead when she hears Brittany whispering for her again. Of course the camp courier would have impeccable timing. And despite Santana's tumultuous thoughts she truly is glad for this interruption. Brittany has the uncanny ability to put her at ease, something she is quite in need of at the present hour. Nevermind that she can't stop grinning like a fool as she slips from her bed as quietly as she's able. She pulls on her coat to ward off the chill of the night air that bites at her skin even now. As she buttons it swiftly she keeps her eyes trained upon her father. He sleeps on, snores rattling loudly as she finally slips barefooted out into the night.

She regrets not stealing a minute to at least have slipped on socks but her heart is in a bit of a frenzy and her senses have gone elsewhere. She scans the area around her tent for Brittany and is relieved to find it blessedly clear of any men.

That is save for one.

Bret Pierce stands just a few paces away, cap askew atop his head and another small rock held in his hands ready to be launched against the tent.

Brittany drops it guiltily when her eyes meet those of Santana's.

Santana can't help the way the corner of her mouth quirks in response to the blush rising to Brittany's cheeks. She makes her way over, mindful to keep her steps light. The last thing she wants is for her father to wake now, of all times, but she knows it's far from likely. His loud snores carry far beyond the tent. He won't be waking for a long while.

Once she's standing in front of Brittany she asks, tone laced with amusement, "It's a bit late to be calling after me, don't you think?"

Brittany loves seeing Santana so at ease with herself. She can't help giving a playful shrug and smiling as she tells her, "I actually don't know what time it is. I just really wanted to see you." Then softly adds, "and even with your hair in a muddle you still look really lovely."

Santana's smirk falters as her mouth parts at the confession and she suddenly finds it slightly harder to breathe. She's so very aware of how Brittany makes her feel. Of every precise and wondrous malfunction occurring within her. The synapses that fire in her brain spur a curious and telling reaction of want inside her. A darkening of her eyes, softening of a brow. Heat upon her cheeks spreading slowly down through her neck and chest. The flash of fear it all instills within her. It's so real. Substantial.

_I care for her, she loves me and_ _we can hide this._

She knows what she wishes to do. God knows her body is already inching forward in anticipation. But she holds herself still, a brief flicker of fear once more crossing her eyes. Brittany grows concerned upon noticing Santana's expression. She remains so as she watches Santana spare a glance to either side of them before she rolls up to her toes and brushes her lips briefly against Brittany's. The courier's concern vanishes with the kiss. Santana gives another yelp when Brittany's arms wrap around her back and she's lifted from her feet into a crushingly delightful hug, the lips beneath hers pulling into a grin.

Santana can't help but laugh as she pulls away, swatting at Brittany's good shoulder until her bare feet are once again resting upon the ground.

The smile upon Brittany's mouth is a tad too impish, her eyes shinning with far too much mirth.

"You enjoyed that, didn't you?" Santana quips.

"Mmhmm," Brittany hums contentedly as she reaches up and pats down a more unruly section of Santana's hair. She is still smiling without a care otherwise, that is until a boisterous cheer is shouted through the camp and Brittany ultimately recalls why she's sought Santana out.

As the smile on the courier's face slips, expression growing solemn, Santana finds herself growing anxious. "Is something wrong?" she asks.

"No, not wrong," Brittany says, yet the heavy quality to her tone would denote otherwise. A deep crease forms over Santana's brow at the sound. Brittany sighs. "I have to go to Lexington again. I didn't want to leave without telling you. I know how you worried last time." Brittany tells her, spotting that same worry now upon Santana's face. She reaches up, letting the tips of her fingers drag softly along the knotted brow. Santana's features soften instantly at the light touch. Brittany threads her fingers through dark hair, tucking a piece neatly behind a small ear. It's hot to the touch and Brittany can't help but notice Santana's eyes have darkened again as well. They always do, she realizes, whenever she touches her like this.

Santana blinks quickly, willing herself to focus. "When will you be back?" she asks quietly.

Brittany leans forward, wrapping Santana in a tight hug. "As soon as I can be," she whispers.

Santana holds her closer, whispering against Brittany's neck, "Be safe, Britt."

"I always am," Brittany tells her, yet even the confidence in her voice does little to quell Santana's grip. Brittany giggles, squeezing Santana tighter. "Don't worry so."

Santana lets out a groan as she buries her face against Brittany's collar. "I'm afraid it's impossible to ask me not to worry for you."

"You can sleep in my tent again, if it helps any," Brittany offers as they release one another yet remain standing close. Brittany nods back toward the Lopez's tent. "Your Pa _is_ a might loud."

Santana rolls her eyes with a chuckle. "I'll be all right here." She truthfully doesn't know how she would keep her worries in check surrounded by Brittany's things. It is best to stay away.

"But he's so loud San. How do you sleep?"

"He's usually not like this, it'll pass," Santana says with a few flicks of her wrist.

Brittany squints, thinking for a moment before saying, "my tent is quieter."

Santana's eyes gleam with playfulness. "You really want me in your bed again, don't you?"

"I do," Brittany tells her, bluntly. Truthfully. "I always want you there."

She's smiling down at Santana with that same easy grin she seems to reserve only for her. Even as Santana feels her heart pounding harder beneath her ribs, the last of her cautions are being thrown to the wind. Because, really, there is something incredibly wrong with Brittany Pierce. Something so _wonderfully_ wrong that makes it all the more right. For when the woman you adore is more worried whether you'll get a good night's sleep than what could befall her on the long journey she's about to take there can't be any other explanation.

And it's much to Brittany's surprise that she finds Santana's lips upon her own, this time with far more intensity. She stumbles back at the force, arms quick to rise up and wrap about Santana's back, their bodies pressed fully against one another. Brittany wishes she could appease the anxiety she feels in Santana's kiss. It's a desperate kind of touch she feels in the doctor's fingers upon her jaw and she swears Santana just raked her teeth across her bottom lip. Brittany's legs feel ready to give out entirely and before they fully can she breaks away from the kiss, breathless even as Santana pulls her face close once more and nuzzles her nose against a heated cheek.

" _Please be safe, Brittany_ ," Santana whispers. It's a plea more than a request.

Brittany wishes she wouldn't worry so; it only makes leaving her all the harder.

So as Santana pulls away Brittany smiles broadly, nose crinkling cutely, and promises her, "For you, always."

* * *

"Not going to check on me first?"

Santana looks up from the sleeping soldier she's readjusting the sling on. She's surprised to find Sam sitting up in his cot a few men away, arm still snuggly wrapped in the fresh bandages she fitted on his stub of an arm herself this dawn as he slept. She was pleased then to see he was healing well, no sign of infection, no excessive bruising. Though now he should be resting still, she thinks, and certainly not scratching at his bandages.

"Don't do that," she snaps at him, voice hushed so as to not wake the other patients. Sam immediately lowers his hand but in doing so his bandaged arm knocks lightly against his side. He hisses painfully, wincing as his legs curl involuntarily up along the cot.

Santana makes her way to his side quickly. "Careful," she warns, worried for the sutures that could break. He gives her a charmed smile and it's a bit lopsided she notes; lazy. She lets out chuckle. "Someone gave you a bit of morphine I see."

"It's wearing off now but yes," Sam replies, crooked grin widening. "Might I have you to thank for that?"

"I had the nurse administer some an hour ago. You were stirring in your sleep," she tells him, fingering the thin material of his blanket. Her stomach groans loudly. Sam smothers his amusement with a pursing of his lips as Santana feels her face warm, embarrassed. She hadn't the time this morning to eat, nor does she desire food; her stomach is still in a knot of concern for Brittany. Though, thankfully, she's nowhere near the level of distress she felt the last time Brittany was sent out on the same journey. She hopes the courier stops to rest, mindful of the exhaustion weighing the woman down the last time she returned from such an arduous ride.

"Well then, thank you, Miss Santana," Sam says kindly, effectively snapping her from her thoughts. She gives him a small smile as they fall into companionable silence and she checks over his arm. They both know it's unnecessary but Sam appreciates her concern. While she works he watches from between the open tent entrance as some of the men nearby drive shovels deep into the soil. He can see Noah among them, his shirtsleeves rolled up high along his dirtied forearms. The air is crisp, winter approaching fast, yet Noah swipes at his forehead, brushing away the thick perspiration collecting over his brow. Sam can't help but note the strain in his friend's eyes.

He wonders how long Noah's been up this morning, digging graves for those who passed during the night.

"Did you sleep well?" Santana asks. She raises her brows as she stares over at Sam. He brushes some of his hair from where it falls over his eyes and gives a few nods of his head. "Pain tolerable? Having any itchiness, soreness or problems of the like?"

"No, _doctor_ ," he smirks. "I'm fit as the fiddle I can no longer play."

Santana rolls her eyes and shoves his knee playfully. "You're far to chipper for a musician who's just been rendered mute."

"I like to think of it otherwise," he says, voice no longer tinged with amusement but instead a sort of numbed acceptance. "Finn risked his life so I could be here now. I may have lost one arm but I still _breathe_. I'll get to see my little brother and sister again, my parents. I have everything still," and with a lightness she's surprised to hear he adds, "and I've been told harmonicas are gettin' quite popular. Always did want to give 'em a try."

"They'll be sending you home, you know," Santana tells him with a soft smile. "You'll be with them soon, playing your new harmonica for them."

He laughs. It's a deep, relieved sound masking the quiver in his voice as he says, "I'm happy for it, believe me Miss Santana."

"You can just call me Santana, you know," she muses. "You _have_ seen me a _might_ wallpapered."

"You? Wallpapered that night?" Sam winks and brushes the comment off with a wave of his hand. "Nah, you just keep your liquor far better than any of us can."

"I think of all the boys here I am going to miss you most," she says then feels her cheeks warm realizing she hadn't meant to say so aloud.

Sam leans closer, a large mischievous smile upon his equally large lips as he whispers, "we both know that's not true."

"I don't—"

"Now don't you go denying it either," he chuckles. "You and Bret? You two are like a saw to bone."

Santana's top lip curls upward, eyes squinted in disbelief. "That's a _horrible_ analogy, Sam."

"I'm not one for fancy words," Sam says with a laugh. "Just making light of my situation, that's all."

"You also tell horrible jokes. I mean, quite literally, the worst."

"And yet you say you'd miss me most."

"Very well," Santana groans, laughing when his pout doesn't wane. "I will miss you _second_ to most. Happy now?"

"So long as you promise to write me every so often I very much shall. Whilst I adore my family and cannot wait to be with them again I will very much be thinking of you all and prayin' for the best."

"I'll write, I promise. Where's home?"

"Marysville. And how 'bout you? Where does a nice gal like you call home?"

Santana gives a chuckle at his teasing tone but finds herself smiling, an honest-to-god, truly warm grin as she answers, "Lima. My home's in Lima."

* * *

Brittany makes it back late the next day, having stopped to rest the previous night at the telegram owner's home. The old man insisted she spend the night, knowing full well the orders she was returning with weren't as tantamount as the battle orders she'd run out with a mere few days prior. Brittany was grateful for a bed, but did terribly miss her bedroll as she lay down to sleep. Her tent might have been far more uncomfortable and nowhere near as warm but it held the promise of being shared with a lovely woman. There could never be a comparison. She was glad for the rest though, especially as it afforded Lulu some time to sleep as well.

As she approaches the camp now she feels nowhere near as exhausted as she was from the previous journey. This time she sports a mighty large grin upon her face when she spots Santana standing beside Burt near the camp entrance. She's happy they've taken to one another; they're her two favorite people in the regiment.

"Safe trip?" Burt asks as she guides Lulu to a stop beside them. He takes hold of her reins and softly runs his hand along the horse's long nose. Lulu gives a quiet snort in appreciation as Brittany hops down.

"Like always," she replies, her answer more for Santana's ears than his. She watches as the doctor's eyes rove across her body, dark brow knotted in concentration. Brittany lets out a chuckle. "I thought I told you not to worry so."

Santana's silent examination concludes as her gaze locks upon Brittany's. With a challenging smirk she tells her, "and I do believe I told you that was impossible."

Burt can't help but stand back, watching the exchange before him with a grin. After a moment, though, he feels the need to pursue the matter of Bret's trip. "Word from Lexington?" he asks.

Brittany never breaks her gaze as she fishes the telegram from her pocket and holds it out for him. He plucks it from her fingers with a laugh, giving her a solid pat on the back.

"I'll just leave you two to it then," Burt says, knowing full well they aren't paying him the least bit of attention. He smiles nonetheless as Bret nods, clearly distracted, eyes still very much focused upon the dark pair before him.

"Have you eaten?" Brittany asks after his steps no longer meet her ears. Santana's smile softens and she shakes her head. "Would you like to, with me?"

Santana bridges the few steps separating them, wanting very much for those long arms to wrap tightly about her frame. But she's ever mindful of the eyes that could be watching and instead she reaches up, dusting some dirt from Brittany's shoulder. "Of course," she answers with a smile.

They eat at the table just outside the medical tent. Brittany sits on the tabletop leaned back on her elbows, flicking crumbs of her stale bread into Santana's lap whenever the doctor's eyes begin to dart to their surroundings. She giggles every time Santana pretends to be affronted by the mess. Santana always brushes them aside, rolling her eyes even as her lips betray her with a small, amused grin. She, naturally, finds it all deplorably charming.

They talk of their days spent apart, interrupted every so often by a nurse in need of Santana's hand. The doctor rises from her spot on the bench, brushing off more crumbs from her dress with yet another roll of her eyes. She always returns with a bit of sadness upon her face, and Brittany leans toward her, whispering of how proud of her she is. Santana blushes, sitting once more and focusing upon her meal. It's all she can do to keep herself from kissing Brittany as she wishes whenever the courier compliments her in such a fulfilling way. The urges to do so are both exhilarating and frightening still. She sips nervously at her stew as Brittany slips from the tabletop and onto the bench beside her.

"San is this..." Brittany begins to ask, voice trailing off as she stares squarely into Santana's exposed eyes. She's been trying to gauge the doctor's feelings for the majority of their supper. Even after everything she told her that night behind Burt's tent Santana still seems torn. "Are you all right with us?"

Santana's eyes squint with confusion. "What do you mean Britt? I'm not upset with you about the crumbs if that's what—"

"No, I know you're not angry with me. You're smiling now more than ever and I love seeing you like this," Brittany tells her with a soft grin. It widens as she notices a light blush spread across Santana's cheeks. _She does care for me_ , she thinks. Her gaze settles down to their hands resting on the tabletop. She slides her hand forward, brushing her fingertips across Santana's pinky. When Santana flinches, retracting her hand, Brittany pulls away with a sigh. "Why are you still scared?"

"Someone could _see_ ," Santana explains, tone heated.

Brittany plops her chin down into her upturned palm. "And now you're upset with me."

Santana groans. "Brittany this is..." she pauses, her eyes briefly meeting Brittany's own. The courier is staring at her, confused and admonished. Santana never meant to make her feel so troubled. She feels a stab of guilt knowing she is to blame. _Brittany's done no wrong, again_ , she thinks to herself with a sigh. She keeps her voice low as she leans forward and whispers, "I care for you, please don't ever question that but this is so different and new and... I don't know _how_ to do this. Do you understand?"

"It's not surgery, San," Brittany chuckles. "You just let yourself feel. It's very easy. You were doing so well earlier."

But Santana shakes her head. "I'm trying so hard to hide what I feel for you, Brittany."

And simply Brittany answers her, "don't."

Santana's head snaps up at the response. "If someone were to see us, like _that_ —"

"Noah knows," Brittany tells her.

Santana's stomach plummets, heart quick to stall. "What?" she explodes, breathless as she stares incredulously over at Brittany. A few passing soldiers find their attention drawn over at the outburst. Santana can feel every pair of eyes firmly planted upon her body. _They can see_ , she thinks. They can see right through her. Her worry does nothing to quell the overwhelming fear burning inside her. It's exacerbated, suffocating her. She pulls her hands to her lap, digging her fingers deep into her apron as she hisses out through clenched teeth, " _You told him! Brittany, how could—_ "

"I didn't say anything," Brittany interrupts, upset at Santana's anger and frankly growing tired of the doctor's temper. "I'm not stupid."

Santana closes her eyes as Brittany's harsh tone washes over her. "I never said you were," she tells her quietly. "You're not stupid Brittany, but no one can know about us. _No one_."

"Not even Burt?"

" _Brittany_!" Santana exclaims in a rushed whisper.

"I don't like secrets, San," Brittany admits. "It's hard enough remembering to be Bret."

"You love me, right?" Santana ventures and at Brittany's confident nod she continues, "Then we need to keep this hidden."

"Like Lucy?" Brittany asks. "I don't want to hide under a rock whenever I want to kiss you."

"No," Santana shakes her head, her frustrations ebbing in light of Brittany's innocuous misperception. _Of course she'd make that connection_ , Santana thinks with a small smile. "Not _that_ literally. We just can't be together out here."

"They see us now."

"They see Bret talking with me."

"I'm _never_ Bret with you."

_And that is the problem,_ Santana reminds herself solemnly. "I need you to be," she tells Brittany, hoping her gaze conveys the utmost significance of her words even if her voice wavered in apprehension. "When it's not just us, I need you to be him. Please Brittany. _Please_ understand."

"I do," Brittany says softly, yet with despondence. She never wants to hide what she feels for Santana. It's something special and wonderful and she really doesn't have the expansive vocabulary of the doctor to fill her thoughts with more verbose depiction. All she knows is that Santana is a dance; the most difficult, dizzying, satisfyingly addictive dance she's ever fallen into. One she never wishes to quit from. She wants everyone to know how in love with this dance she's fallen. But she can also see how terrified Santana is of the same fate. How much the woman does care for her, wants to be with her…. But not here, not where the men can see and boys like Scott Cooper could have more reason to pester, or worse _hurt,_ her further. Brittany knows she can handle the likes of the Scott Coopers in camp. She promised to never let anyone hurt the two of them.

And Brittany Pierce _never_ breaks a promise.

"I love you Santana and I don't want you to be afraid to love me," Brittany tells her as she slides back along the bench. The distance pains her but she knows it's for the best. Quietly and with her voice lowered to Bret's register she promises, "I'll hide with you."

* * *

No sooner do they finish their meal that the order carried within Brittany's telegram is spread throughout the camp. The regiment is being sent south, straight down into confederate territory.

Everyone is to be packed for departure by morn in a day's time.

They see to it that their dishes are left with the cook, each silent as the order encircles their every thought. The once celebratory atmosphere of the camp has been quieted with the news. Many a soldier is out and about in search of spare pen and paper. A silent need to relay a message home. What many are now considering could very well be the last one they write. No one wishes to leave.

Let alone dare venture below northern territory lines.

And even despite the uncertainty now stirring nervously in the gut of the women there is one matter needing to be resolved.

Santana turns to Brittany, "Shall I help you with that letter?"

They settle down beside a small fire near Brittany's tent. The rest of the men mill about center of camp, readying for the departure. Brittany and Santana are alone, nothing stirring about them aside from the sounds of the fire crackling and the insects chirping in the forest.

The letter is crinkled, Brittany's tears long since dried upon the paper. Santana can't help but recall that night and how she found the blonde. She remembers thinking she'd give anything just to see a smile cross those quivering lips. She does not wish to pull that sorrow back out of Brittany, which she knows is a very likely possibility given what she's agreed to help her with. There is no way to make her forget what she'd read, to imagine Emily in any other way than feverish upon a bed. Dying. A shudder rolls down Santana's spine at the thought. And even as worry mars her features she finds herself leaning against Brittany, relishing in the calm warmth the woman provides.

She smothers the wrinkles out from the page, eyes flittering across the writing below. She's grown accustomed to Hendrick's hand but something about the way his pen flowed across the page stirs unease within her. Halfway through his writing grows looser, the strokes quicker, messier. She can't imagine what he must have been feeling, knowing he was writing words that would surely leave his eldest broken-hearted. She huddles closer to Brittany, their arms linking at the elbow as she begins to read to herself.

_Lima, Ohio Sept. 16th 1862  
Dear Son,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. We all still miss you terribly back home. I've been tending to your duties, readying for the fall harvest. I pray you stay warm and keep well during these coming months. There was a chill here just yesterday; Apple didn't much like having to be taken on his rounds that morn. I reckon you must have felt it down south though maybe not as strong. Please, don't forget your gloves._

_I am afraid I must say what need be said despite the pain it brings me to do so. Emily is not well. Dr. Nelson has stopped by a few times when he can but he says there is little to be done. We can't believe him. I can see Emily fighting this everyday and I know she will keep doing so. She misses you so much. Her fever may be high but so is her hope. Fret not son. We love you._

_Keep safe and warm and well,  
Pa_

Santana lays the letter down upon her lap, exhaling a long breath.

"Is it as I read?" Brittany asks, voice quieted, full of unbridled anxiety. Santana finds Brittany's hand, the courier's fingers toying nervously with a frayed section of her slacks atop her left calf. Without so much as a thought Santana reaches over, fitting her hand easily around Brittany's right. She gives her a small smile before slipping her journal face down into Brittany's lap.

"Her fever has risen," Santana says, mindful of keeping her own worry from leaking into her voice. Brittany's eyes widen as she sucks in a sharp gasp. Santana gives the suddenly still hand within her own a reassuring squeeze. "He says she's fighting, Britt. She's not going to let this stop her from seeing you again."

Brittany shakes her head, casting her gaze down. "He never said that."

"He did, would you like me to read it to you?"

"That's all right. I trust you, remember?" she says through a small grin. Santana is glad for it. She was so afraid of upsetting Brittany again. But again Brittany sighs as she rests the side of her head against Santana's shoulder. "I'm still not a very good reader but I was worried when his hand was shaking. Did you see that? His loops weren't nice anymore."

"He cares for both of you, Brittany. Of course he'd be afraid to have to tell you what's happened."

"I don't know why she's so _sick_ , San," Brittany whimpers, her hand fidgeting some against Santana's. "Emily's never been t-this ill…"

Swallowing down the lump lodged in her throat, Santana closes her eyes before telling her, "This is only based on what your father has said and I could be wrong but—"

Brittany's hand tightens with her own, Santana's words halted by the desperate touch.

She sighs. "I believe she has tuberculosis. I've known now for a while and I… I didn't know how to tell you."

Brittany remains still and alarmingly quiet by Santana's side. Santana can no longer hear the blonde's soft breaths, nor feel Brittany's fingers digging into her skin.

She turns her head, concern creasing her brow. She's only able to see the brim of Brittany's worn cap. "Brittany?" she calls softly.

"That's the one you die from, isn't it?" is spoken so quietly Santana's sure if she wasn't so near to Brittany she would never have heard it. And what more, never felt the burn now tearing through her heart at Brittany's hopeless tone.

Santana releases Brittany's hand, arms quick to wrap around the courier's back instead. Brittany's cap slides further up her forehead as she presses her face into Santana's neck. Hot tears slick against Santana's skin as she holds Brittany close. She swallows thickly. "I'm doing all I can to help her," she whispers.

" _I k-know_ ," Brittany chokes out, pulling away to finally look at Santana. "I just want her to get _better_."

Santana knows nothing short of an absolute miracle will see to it that Emily survives. But she hopes for one anyway with all of what she imagines her calloused heart is able. If there is one person in this horrid world who deserves to overcome tuberculosis it is Emily Pierce. And Santana feels selfish; for she knows a part of her wishes for the youngest Pierce's health merely for the benefit of Brittany's well-being. She can't imagine seeing the light in those blue eyes dim, for all the love in that selfless heart to break. Emily's death would destroy all that Santana's come to care for in Brittany, and that is what she fears losing most.

She can see it starting now, the suffocating sadness threatening to drown Brittany right here, right before her. She can see it in the way Brittany's tears collect in her eyes, the courier doing all she can to keep them from falling again. The way she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth to keep the quivers from showing. The way she fights the hurt spreading in her heart as her hands cling to Santana for support.

Santana cannot tell her the truth.

"She will get better," she lies smoothly; a pang of guilt floods her chest as Brittany shakily smiles, believing in the false words. Santana turns away, unable to hold Brittany's relieved gaze. "If you write to her," she says and hands Brittany the pen she's kept tucked into her coat pocket. "You write to her and tell her how much you love her and how you can't wait to get back home and take her to see those ducks."

"I don't think she cares much for ducks anymore, San," Brittany says with a soft giggle. She sniffles, thinking for a moment before smiling, "Boys though, she cares very much for them."

"Well, then tell her how much you're looking forward to chasing them away from her at the next dance," Santana smirks.

"She'd smile at that," Brittany says, eyes brightening. Santana feels less guilty; more assured that her fib was worth it to see that look back in those blue eyes. "Will you help me? With spelling?"

Santana nods of course, settling a piece of paper down atop the journal still resting in Brittany's lap. Together they spend the next hour writing the following letter home:

_Mackville, Kentucky. Oct. 10th 1862  
Dearest Pa and Emily,_

_I have prayed for the day I could write to you and send you a letter home like the ones you send me. Even before I asked Santana to read to me I carried your letters everyday close to my heart. I never forgot them. Santana has been helping me with my words she tells me I'm very good now but I don't think so. I had to ask her how to spell almost everything so far. She's a very good friend and some day soon I will bring her home and you can meet her and I'm sure you and Emily will love her too. I miss you all so very much and ask Ma everyday to watch over you. Emily I know you will get better. Santana is the best doctor and she has told me you won't ever give up. When I get home the first dance of the season I'm bringing you with me so you must get well. We'll dance all night and I'll make sure your card is filled with only the best of boys. And then Pa and I will watch and smile and wonder when you turned into such beautiful young lady. I love you both and hope to be with you soon. Please give Apple a hug for me and Tubbington a bath if you can Pa. I forgot to in July and he's probably really stinky now so I'm sorry._

_Hoping to hear from you soon  
With all my love to you both,  
Bret Pierce_

_P.S. – Santana knows. She also says for you all to address the next letter like so that way the Express Carrier will post it quicker. We're being sent down to Tompkinsville tomorrow._

_Company I, 106th Ohio Vet. Vol. Inft._  
2nd Brigade 3rd Division 11th A. C.


	9. You, I and Them

Dawn has barely broken across the hills surrounding Mackville by the time both women find themselves buried in their day's work. They're not far from one another; a mere stone's throw away in fact, enough distance for them to share the briefest of warm glances as they carry out their preparations. Brittany assists Burt as he dismantles the armory tents while across the way Santana serves time perched on the table outside the medical tent. A journal rests in her lap, filled with the names of patients in need of new assignments.

The doctor frets whenever her eyes catch sight of another burdensome crate cradled in Brittany's arms. If she could cease working but for even a minute she would stalk right up to Burt and demand Brittany be freed from such a taxing post. For god's sake, dislocated shoulders, even ones upon the dexterously flexible like Brittany still need a great amount of time to fully heal.

Yet every time Santana finds a lull in the patients being led from the tent, Burt steps in, relieving Brittany of the heavy weight. He shoos her away with a laugh, usually followed by a quip about his own son's inability to grow muscles upon his bones. Seeing the smile that breaks across Brittany's face eases the doctor's qualms.

Santana engrosses herself in her delegation once more. Her father has given her explicit control over discharge proceedings, something he feels belittling of his newfound title of Major. Aside from the higher pay Dr. Lopez's new title has granted him, Santana thinks its most obvious effect has been on his ego. If possible it has expanded to the point of utter lunacy. She can see him now, standing among the other surgeons, his stature shorter than theirs but his chest puffed out proudly, the gold stitching of the stars beside his 'MS' strap a mockery upon his shoulders.

The sight makes her queasy.

Thankfully another wave of soldiers are led from the tent and she must return to accounting for them all.

It is hardening work; many of the patients beg to be given leave to return to their families. Their eyes bore into her own, pleading, some even going so far as to attempt bribery, others downright dissolving to tears as she instructs them to return to their companies. The nurses have long since stopped trying to cease the slow trickle of tears from their eyes as they witness the soldiers being returned to service. They survived battle once, their wounds testament to their duty... but the question weighing on all their minds; will they make it through the next?

Santana does not share in the sentiments of the nurses, nor does she allow herself to think further upon the thoughts plaguing the soldiers as they leave with her instructions. There are a hundred some men still on her list and if she were to think of them in any other way than a name upon her page she is sure she will not make it through the day, let alone another hour.

There are three categories to assign the men to: the walking wounded, the wounded requiring further care, and the wounded beyond help. Those able to march on are checked off her list and sent to pack, some even given a small amount of opium to help ease their pain for the coming journey. Those still in need of aid, bedridden or unable to march but otherwise conscious and agreeable are given notices of where they will be sent. A caravan is arriving shortly to ensure their safe travel to Lexington where a hospital was set up a few months prior to relieve camps of their wounded men.

These men are by and far the happiest. The ones missing limbs, rendered incapable of action but not of living. They are trying hard to conceal their joy from the rest of the soldiers once given their directions from Santana. They know they'll soon return home and see their families once again, their time in this army done.

Of those beyond help, the ones whose minds are so far gone, their bodies barely able to sustain a breath... they resemble nothing of the men they once were, let alone will ever be, they are to be sent to the hospital as well. But only once all the other wounded are seen to. It is, after all, no use to rush those already knocking upon death's door.

"I think you've forgotten one," someone mentions from just off to Santana's side. She looks up from her notes and plucks the pen she's been worrying from between her teeth. It's the Asian medic whom approaches her, a hand raised and pointing just over her shoulder.

Where, sure enough, stands one delirious soldier, head wrapped in bloody gauze, his slacks pulled down past his knees, pale behind on full display as he relieves himself upon a horse's hind leg.

_If Brittany could see this she'd be none too pleased_ , Santana thinks as she gives a weary sigh.

"Could you fetch him back here?" she asks, turning back down to her list where she finds the missing soldier's name, squeezed near the bottom of the page. _Jacob Ben Israel. Head trauma, shrapnel to the left temporal lobe._ He'd probably confused the horse for a tree. It wasn't the strangest thing she's seen him misconstrue today. Her thoughts are better off not lingering upon the previous incidents. It is far too early in her day for such memories to resurface.

"I'll get him in a wagon," the medic tells her but instead of fetching the incapacitated soldier he remains standing beside her, staring down at her keenly. Santana raises a brow in question but more so in irritation. "I'm Michael Chang, by the way," he introduces himself with a tip of his bummer cap and a deep bow of his head.

The extent of the bow takes Santana aback. The customs of the Orientals are… peculiar to say the least. She's only ever met one other. Her father had attended to his foot, a railway hammer having smashed a good deal of his toes. The man bowed at least a dozen times as he hobbled out of the practice a few toes short of when he entered and with a thick cast wrapped around his foot.

"Did you see all that foolishness?" her father had asked once the rail worker left. "Thinks me the damned King of Britain he does."

Santana didn't want to mention there wasn't a king currently. Her father was still holding a small blade, after all. Truthfully, she was stunned speechless he'd even agreed to help the poor man. Her father never treated those unable to afford his services, let alone the dredges of society that she knows the man belonged. It only became apparent weeks later, when she'd overhead him with another physician of the area, just why her father had helped the man. Apparently it was in fashion as of late to extend a hand to those in need. To be a good neighbor in these trying and uncertain times. And what better way to boost his popularity in town than to extend his services to someone who would bring his practice much praise.

By the weeks end they were making at least a dozen visits to sickly housewives (or as Santana liked to think, wives prone to spells of dramatic faint.)

Her father never bothered treating another Asian afterward.

She's still wary of this Chang fellow. He hadn't hesitated to rush into her place yesterday when she left to join Brittany, and what more, she knows he was in the battlefield alongside her father. If there is one thing Santana Lopez is not, it is a fool. Given her father's recent actions, she wouldn't be surprised to find out he'd sent Chang to her table on purpose. It would be so like him, to belittle her through another's proficiency. And one her father probably holds in little to no regard at that. But of the other three medics Dr. Lopez returned with, Michael is the only one to have ever addressed her, let alone in a cordial way.

Her gaze narrows some in misgiving anyway as she finally introduces herself with a terse, "Santana Lopez." And again he gives her another bow of his head, this time accompanied by that same smile he gave her in the tent. It's all kindness, dripping with utmost friendly intentions. Santana does not appreciate it. "Do you require something of me?" she asks, a distinctive austerity to her impatient tone.

"Oh, no," he relents with a shake of his head. His grin, blessedly Santana thinks, turns sheepish. "I just want to apologize, for yesterday. You didn't seem too thrilled with my assistance."

"You did just _insert yourself_ without so much as an explanation," she says dryly, eyes narrowing once more as she adds, "like some type of neurotically rude gore-monger."

Michael winces. "My apologies, I didn't mean to offend you in any way, doctor. I am merely here to assist." He bows his head again, this time Santana is unable to resist the urge to roll her eyes at the gesture. But then Michael looks away, gaze landing upon Israel. "As I should be assisting with him about now before that horse gives him some more brain damage, huh?"

Santana gives him a tight-lipped smile in reply and says nothing further as she turns back down to her notes.

Michael knows when he's been dismissed. Especially crassly, as Santana's just done. He feels he's offended her in some way, though how he isn't sure. Admittedly it probably was not the best of ideas to have taken over the end of her procedure as he had, but he'd overheard a nurse informing the surgeon of a visitor and it seemed a fine gesture at the time to relieve the obviously fatigued doctor from a routine suture. It is clear she's still miffed over the ordeal and, if he's honest with himself, talking to her now hasn't helped much to assuage her already ill-formed judgments of him.

No matter, he thinks as he chases after Jacob. Santana Lopez may be a lot like her father, both obviously headstrong and immensely independent, but even the best of surgeons still requires a helping hand. He is determined to be the very best in that regard. Michael Chang is a forward-thinking man. And while he's still dismayed at being in a war he'd rather never have been a part of, he can't help but think how fortunate he's been to be assigned to this company. His wife, Tina, back home in Columbus will be ecstatic to know he'll been working alongside a female surgeon. Quite possibly one of the only female surgeons in all the army. And a damn good one at that.

Yes, Michael thinks as he finally manages to grab Jacob around the waist and the twiggy man vomits upon his boots, he is most fortunate to be here indeed.

* * *

Knowing her letter is on the way to Lima, even if it takes more than two weeks time for it to be received, brings Brittany solace as she works. Emily will soon be reading words penned from her own hand. Holding that little piece of Brittany close, a smile blooming across the face the courier misses everyday. Sometimes Brittany finds herself simply standing beside the crates filled with mortars, primers and fuses just thinking of her sister, recalling every detail of that face so vividly in her minds eye it's as if Emily were standing right there with her. When she blinks, Emily is gone, replaced instead by Parrot rifles and the lingering scent of bronze and gunpowder.

All her dreams of home and family are replaced with her reality of weapons meant to bring pain and death surest and quickest. She keeps herself from focusing too much upon the artillery Burt has charged her with collecting from within this armory tent. Every cannon round she handles adds another stinging reminder of the friend she lost.

She hopes Puck has been faring well. They haven't spoken since her return but she knows it's neither of their doings. Everyone has been put to work today. The camp is awash with noise; a chorus of hushed and nervous voices. _I'll see him tonight_ , she thinks with a small smile. They're all to gather round a fire for one last evening together before the regiment is sent south. Sam could join too, of course, if he hasn't been sent to Lexington already. And then Puck will strike up a song upon a borrowed guitar, Santana's voice filling the air as Brittany leads her in a dance.

_No_ , she corrects herself with a sigh. _As_ Bret _leads Santana in a dance_. She's still upset over the request of the doctor but a promise made is always a promise kept. One day Santana won't be so afraid anymore, and until then, she'll be _him_. For her, she'll keep hidden. She'll keep her distance. She'll wait.

Brittany dives back into her work with renewed vigor, hoping to distract herself from further thoughts of the doctor. It doesn't help that every time she exits the tent she can feel Santana's eyes upon her, the gaze betraying every emotion the doctor is so adamant to keep concealed and hidden away. _If only she could see herself_ , Brittany thinks, giving Santana a small grin before ducking back inside the armory tent. _Perhaps then she'd see just how silly she's being._

"Bret?" Burt's voice carries in from outside the tent, and not a second later the top of his balding head appears as he peeks inside. "How's it coming along in here?"

"Um," Brittany hums as she turns, assessing the progress she's made thus far. "It's… _coming_ , all right," she says, growing sheepish upon realizing she hadn't made much headway since he'd last asked.

Burt seems not to have noticed though, simply giving the tent flap a few slaps as he retreats, calling from over his shoulder, "I'll be right on over with a wagon for those crates!"

Brittany is relieved he hasn't pried further. Her work is slow moving but she has a system in place. One that, for once, doesn't confuse her. A small smile quirks at her lips as she thinks of the reason why. Or more aptly the who to whom she owes a great deal of thanks. Santana makes her so insufferably confused at times but on this matter, her feelings for the doctor are unshakable. The handwriting scrawled across the crates may be illegible to most, but Brittany can read her own penmanship just fine. She thinks she'll probably be the one unloading them once they're in Tompkinsville anyway so it makes no matter.

With a great heave she pries another crate down from atop the stack of ammunition and carefully sets it aside next to the others for transport. She plucks her piece of chalk from her pocket and scribbles atop the lid a large number two for the second armory tent. Below it she slowly spells out " _canisters_." Satisfied and feeling doubly proud of herself, Brittany begins to push the crate out the tent entrance to where she hopes Burt has brought round the wagon.

A scowl pulls at her lips when instead of a wagon she finds Scott Cooper. "Now _this_ is a job more befitting of a lackey such as yourself," he says with a wry grin.

Brittany stands upright, wishing to cross her arms over her chest but not willing to give Cooper the satisfaction of seeing her so frustrated with his presence. He's obviously only come here to tease her once more. She's so sick of his pettiness. "What do you want?" she asks as she turns back down to her work, intent on ignoring him if he feels the need to continue on in his unfriendly manner. Her father has a saying about people like Scott Cooper. What is it he always says of bees? _Or was it flies?_

…Some type of bug, she can't really remember which. But he would say something like; _you catch more of them with honey than cigars._

It still doesn't make much sense to her.

"I was told you've been charged with securing a few of the armory wagons," Cooper says and Brittany looks up to him, confused for a moment at the serious quality of his usually mocking tone. She straightens, dusting her chalk-coated hands off along her slacks as her attention is drawn toward Cooper. He pulls an issued ammunition pouch from out of his bag. A very small, insignificant sized pouch. "You see, I haven't the space in my haversack for these rounds and as per Dr. Lopez's orders I am to keep as much excess weight off my leg as possible."

Brittany wishes to scoff. The bag weighs as much as a few apples at most. It is hardly a burden. Though she doesn't for one second doubt Dr. Lopez's order. The last thing she feels she needs is for him to think any more ill of her than he already, evidently, does.

"Give it here," she tells him, extending a hand to collect the bag.

Scott Cooper tosses it her way and Brittany catches it without fail. He seems almost disappointed by her reflex as she turns back into the tent to find the appropriately marked crate to deposit the rounds within.

"You know we talked a bit about Santana, Dr. Lopez and I. Rest assured I only told him the best of things about you!" Cooper hollers from outside the tent, chuckling a bit when Brittany reappears with the same scowl upon her face that she first greeted him with. Cooper's smirk grows wider. "She's a fine lady. And even you must agree she deserves the _best_ in a man. What say you, _Eunuch_?"

_He is not worth it_ , Brittany repeats to herself as she pushes past him to collect more hay for filling crates. Cooper grabs her by the arm before she can even reach the pile, spinning her back round to face him.

"Where's your trite retort?" he taunts, throwing her arm aside. Brittany stumbles back, letting out a small hiss at the spike of pain that shoots through her shoulder. Cooper merely chuckles, "Not so tough today are you, without her or Puckerman by your side? I think I may even pay Miss Santana a visit, tell her just how _useless_ —"

She advances on him, shoulder forgotten as she growls out, "If you do anything to her—"

"Calm your britches, Eunuch," Cooper says with a laugh, easily pushing Brittany back a few feet. His eyes dart down to her slacks before his amused gaze locks upon her own. "Though I doubt you've anything in there to calm."

Brittany tries her very best to stay composed, digging her fingers deep into the palms of her hands. She bites her tongue hard, willing the words she wishes to strike out with to remain mute. _Fighting fire with rocks only leads to hot rocks_ , she reminds herself _._ Though she also believes Cooper deserves to sit upon a steaming bed of them. _Ignore him_ , she commands herself; _just get back to work and pay him no more mind_.

Cooper though seems to not know when to quit. He trails after her as she reenters the tent.

"I know you're friendly with the girl," he tells her with his usual air of pomposity. "I just plan on being _friendlier_. Dr. Lopez gave me his consent, more than I know he's given _you_. What is it he called you again? Right, the intelligence-draining succubus fastened to Santana's side."

Brittany has stopped working entirely, staring at Cooper with a crooked grin. One that the man finds aggravatingly infuriating.

"Why are you smiling?" he demands.

Brittany's smile only grows as she tells him, "For once I'm not the one saying something dumb."

Cooper's lips thin to the point where Brittany believes he may have bitten them entirely off. His face turns that impossible shade of outraged red she's come to expect by this point. She finds it rather hilarious he could even think of winning Santana's favor. If possible, the doctor detests Scott Cooper more than she.

A fact she thinks Cooper is now just beginning to realize. As he turns to exit the tent he stumbles, purposely Brittany notes, into one of the taller stacks of crates. Gravity takes hold as he takes a step back, pleased as a few of the topmost crates come tumbling down. They crash to the floor before Brittany can ever hope to stop them, spilling their contents clear across the tent.

"Oh, _damned_ pity," Cooper says, kicking a few of the minie ball rounds near his feet. Hundreds more lie strewn across the hardened ground. Brittany's eyes narrow with furious aggravation. "Clean this up, will you Pierce? There are balls everywhere!" Cooper feigns disgust, top lip curled as he exits the tent, his last words ringing loudly for all to hear, "Perhaps you'll find a pair to replace the ones missing along with your cock!"

Brittany grinds her teeth hard. She's sure her nails have pierced the skin of her palms by now. She cannot believe the utter… _childishness_ that is Scott Cooper. How one man can act so _stupid_ amidst a war is beyond her. It goes well beyond petty jealously at this point. She hopes he's found out soon for the horrible person he is. The cavalry boys already despise him; it's only a matter of time before the rest of the infantry are privy to his true nature. She holds no fears for his perceived notions toward Santana. Let him try and woo her, she thinks. It would be quite the spectacle, watching as Santana cuts him down to the filth that he truly is.

Burt enters then, shocked to find his charge standing smack in the middle of a clutter, glowering down at the minie rounds with a passion even he's surprised to see upon Bret's face. "What happened here, Bret?"

Brittany grumbles out a detestable, " _Scott Cooper_."

And that's all Burt needs to know as he gives a sigh and begins picking the rounds off the floor. "That boy deserves a good lickin'."

Brittany perks. "Noah Puckerman gave him a shiner once."

Burt lets out a boisterous laugh. "And that boy deserves a damned medal."

It takes the two of them a good portion of the morning to recover the precious ammunition. Burt promises to do something about Cooper all the while. Brittany is grateful for his company and even more so for his assurances. They give her piece of mind as they labor through the noon hours.

That is until a reprieve arrives in the shape of an overtly poised Santana Lopez. "Bret, Mr. Hummel," she begins, tucking a wayward section of her long hair behind an ear. Her eyes flicker over to Brittany who's intent upon keeping her promise, gaze rooted to the floor instead of upon the face she wishes to see. Santana focuses back to Burt, "I hope you two have been faring lightly in duties today."

When it becomes apparent that Bret isn't going to be forthcoming with words, Burt speaks up, "We're just fine, Miss Santana. Is there something we could get for you?"

"No, I just wanted to give this to Bret," Santana replies, retrieving a neatly-folded letter from her skirt pocket. Brittany accepts it, hesitating as she briefly meets Santana's eyes. "I've detailed some exercises for loosening your shoulder. These'll help ease any discomfort from all the _heavy lifting_ I've seen you do today," the doctor explains with a look of contempt thrown Burt's way. She turns back to Brittany, the look gone and replaced with something she can't quite place. It's pointed, much the same way Emily sometimes stares at her when waiting for Brittany to grasp understanding. But it's also a might softer than Brittany has anticipated. Patient. Brittany only grows more baffled by the expression in the dark eyes. Why can't Santana just tell her? Why in a letter? Is it for further practice? Santana must have picked up on her faltering confidence last night, it is the only reason she can see why she's now being given this note.

Bret nods, stuffing the letter deep inside his coat pocket.

Burt stares over at him, eyes squinted in observation. Again Bret remains silent. Burt can feel the dynamic between his charge and the doctor has changed, though he can't pinpoint how. It worries him, to be honest, seeing the two acting so… distant. "That's mighty nice of you Miss Santana," he says after a moment, smiling over at the doctor.

"Yes, well, I should be going now. Work to be done and such," Santana says with a roll of her hand back toward the medical tent. She looks once more to Bret before telling him, "make sure you read that _soon_."

"I will," Bret answers quietly, eyes still intently rooted to the ground. "Thank you."

And with that Santana departs, steps hasty as she makes her way back into the medical tent.

Burt waits but a clock tick before the words he's been holding back tumble out in a rush. " _What was that_?"

"I think it was a beetle," Brittany replies, though she's not entirely sure what just rolled by her foot. It very well could have also been an errant minie round. She looks up from her feet to find Burt staring at her with an expression she's never seen cross his face; a mix of disappointment and utter puzzlement. It upsets her.

"No, what just transpired between _you and Miss Santana_?" he asks, his voice strained in a direct reflection of the emotions upon his face. "When did you two become so… reserved?"

Brittany squints up at him. "I don't understand."

Burt groans. "Just a few days ago you could barely keep your eyes off one another, now you two act like strangers! What happened?"

Brittany feels her face heating. She hates having to lie to Burt. With a heavy shrug of her shoulders she tells him, "Miss Santana's a friend, is all."

Burt stares at Bret for a moment, noting the nervous shift of the courier's feet upon the ground. Bret's weight bounces from one leg to the other, almost as if he's itching to relieve himself of his conversation. Since when is Bret uncomfortable around him? And especially over a topic such as Santana? And since when is it _Miss Santana_ to boot? Have they really reverted to formalities? If anything Burt can hardly ever get Bret to keep quiet about the woman. One simple question about their lessons turns into an entire lesson for himself in all things Santana Lopez. Right down to the way her cheek apparently indents whenever she smiles genuinely. Bret adores that woman and Burt knows, without a shadow of doubt, that Santana feels the same in return. Something has happened between them and while he wishes to know, if only to help Bret through this muck they've made for themselves, he knows it's not his place. So with a nod, and what he hopes is a comforting grin he tells Bret, "If you say so. Just know my old ears are always ready whenever you need someone to listen."

As Burt returns to hauling crates from the tent Brittany feels a pang of regret at not being able to disclose the truth to him. She hates keeping things from Burt, but she's promised Santana she would. It makes her wonder why the doctor would bother giving her a letter when she knows they'll be seeing each other tonight. They'd promised Puck they'd keep him company. Santana could just show her the exercises then as Brittany is pretty sure she'll just become incredibly confused trying to decipher them in writing instead.

Perhaps Santana has drawn her pictures? Brittany enjoys seeing the doctor's attempts at rendering life. They are endearing in their dreadfulness.

Her curiosity gets the better of her, and with a quick excuse to Burt she jumps up into the half-filled wagon to read.

It's a lengthy paragraph that meets her eyes; the doctor was obviously in a rush as she penned it. Brittany smiles nonetheless as she slowly begins reading;

_B,_

_To clarify these aren't exercise directions, but in case you were hoping for some I could show you a few tonight. I wanted to invite YOU to use our trough for a BATH this AFTERNOON. And just to clarify I don't think you smell. It's just who's to know when we'll all get the chance to bathe again? I'd rather not think too much on the circumstances that could lead to such an unfortunate fate as already I find myself dreading leaving this pathetic patch of land we've come to consider home. The south will be unkind and the bugs will be sure to eat us all alive but that is neither here nor there. Excuse my tangent. The matter is if you'd like a BATH PLEASE HELP YOURSELF. My father will be with patients all day. I'll be in my tent soon._

_-S_

Brittany finds her grin widening as she rereads the note. Even in print the doctor sounds flustered, her writing growing looser, words rambling. _It's adorable_ , Brittany thinks, of how poor Santana is at hiding her affections. Santana didn't have to bother emphasizing anything; Brittany understood it all, albeit with some struggle over the more lengthy words. She can't help feeling a bit touched that Santana intentionally went against her strict rules of grammar in order to ensure her words were, quite literally, loud and clear.

Brittany can imagine the cringe upon Santana's face as she scrawled those capitals. It only has her smiling more.

Brittany folds up the note and neatly tucks it into her pocket. She hops down from the wagon and calls out for Burt. "Mr. Hummel?" With a raise of his brows he turns to her and she asks, unable to contain her delight, "Could you help me with something?"

* * *

"Jacob Ben Israel should have a disorder named after him," Michael Chang announces with a tired chuckle as he makes his way inside the portion of the medical tent that remains standing. A few soldiers lift a bit of canvas for him to pass beneath where opposite Santana is currently collecting the last of her supplies. She looks up as he leans against the nearest support post. His once immaculately-parted hair is a mess atop his head, a few pieces stuck along his sweaty forehead, and he smells distinctly of vomit. He smiles nonetheless as he tells her, "no frets, he's well on his way to Lexington by now."

Santana pays the smile no mind as she focuses upon her task, hoping he does not move closer as she asks, "and the others?"

"All accounted for and awaiting the next caravan which should be here early tonight," he tells her, pushing off the post with a roll of his shoulder. Santana catches the fluid movement from the corner of her eye, thinking for a moment how very much like Brittany the action was. "Would you like me to oversee it?"

"If you could," Santana tells him. And because he remains standing, hovering just beside her yet again she emphasizes, " _Thank you_."

The dismissal of which goes well over Michael's head. "Is there anything else you require?"

Santana drops her kit atop the stacked cots with a none-too-disguised groan of impatience. "Are you always this _insufferably_ accommodating?"

But Michael only gives her a grin in reply and adds after Santana raises an eyebrow, "My wife thinks the same at times."

Santana's eyes are naturally drawn to his left hand where, sure enough, a simple and exceedingly thin brass band is snugly fit around his ring finger. "So it seems you are married."

"With two sons and another child on the way," he says proudly. "We're hoping this one is a daughter."

"How is it _you_ were drafted?" Santana asks, now curious why a man with such a young family and no other means of support could ever have been chosen.

The answer becomes clear as Michael's once genial expression hardens. He speaks through a tightened jaw as he says, "I wasn't drafted. I volunteered."

Santana's eyes widen at the admission. "You've a growing family at home and yet you _volunteered_?" she asks, incredulous. "Perhaps we should be naming a medical disorder after _you_ instead. What is _wrong_ with you? Are you truly so stu—"

"You may think me stupid but I assure you my decision was anything but," he interrupts. His words are sharp but his tone is compassionate. He understands her anger. In fact he is also rather surprised and pleased by it. _So it seems the doctor has a heart after all_ , he thinks. He takes a step closer toward her, his voice soft as he asks, "Have you seen the men on the front lines? Do you know who they throw into battle first?"

"God willing, men the likes of Scott Cooper," she mutters as she bends to collect her kit.

"The men of color, the immigrants. Men like _me_ ," he intones gravely. When he has Santana's full attention he notes the unease with which the doctor holds her kit close to her chest. "The minute I could sign up for this war I did and I requested, smartly, to be trained as a medic," he continues, tone quieted. "Why risk waiting for the draft when it's common knowledge who gets chosen? We're much the same, you and I. We're not like them. We must continually prove our worth to ever be considered even marginally competent. I wasn't about to sit around waiting for a white man to hand me my death warrant. I've taken my fate into my own hands, Miss Santana. Just as you have."

He doesn't give a bow of his head, or even a simple nod as he turns to take his leave.

Santana can't quite believe all the fortitude behind his words. They echo inside her head, reminding her of all the ill-formed and _ignorant_ judgments she's construed of him. She hadn't given him much thought when they met, but it is clear now the man is keen. Incredibly so. She doesn't imagine she would ever have had the foresight to make such a monumental decision.

She who only tagged along with her father out of spite.

Shame is never an emotion that much strikes her. But she feels it now as she stares over at Michael Chang. She's reminded of how graceful his movements were, how much like Brittany she'd thought him then. And how very alike she thinks them now. Unselfish, _good_ people are a rarity in this world. Santana doesn't feel she deserves to know let alone stand beside any of them. Not her, not with all her ill-tempers and hesitance… her insecurities and ever more fragile heart.

Her father taught her at a young age that the strong always pity the weak. She'd always thought herself like him. Aspired to it at one point even. They were the strong ones, the ones with the power, the ones far and above all others. To think the dying patients upon her table have shown more strength of character in their last seconds than she has her whole life makes her… well, it makes her feel entirely pathetic. Weak. But she recognizes this within her now. And she knows after her father's display this morn that he has yet to realize the same within himself. She doesn't think he ever will.

She pities him.

In the months to come, she realizes there will be times when she and her father will clash and she will need an ally on her side once the dust settles. A reminder to stand strong.

"Michael?" she calls for him and the medic turns, surprised yet grinning upon placing the soft tone of her voice. "Would you care to join a few of us in drink tonight?"

* * *

Santana makes her way back to her tent with an unfamiliar, but welcome, lightness in her step. The other men in camp seem to drag their feet upon the ground but she cannot help feeling as though, despite their imminent departure, she has achieved some measure of goodness today. There is also the matter that her tent should currently be occupied by a bathing Brittany and that in itself is incentive enough for her pace to quicken.

She ducks inside her tent hastily; a look spared over her shoulder to ensure her father is nowhere in sight. She lets the tent flap fall back down, looping a string over one of the clasps. He'll know to keep away.

"Good afternoon, San," Brittany greets her, very much still in the middle of her bath. The courier grins cheekily. "You're late."

"Apologies," she says her cheeks flushing as her eyes meet the bright blue of Brittany's. "I was caught up with one of the new medics, Michael. You'll meet him tonight," she explains, a small smile pulling at her lips as she spots a rather crafty looking mound of soapsuds floating upon the bath water. "I see you're enjoying your bath."

"I am, thank you," Brittany tells her as she turns in the trough and crosses her arms on the edge. A few soapsuds roll off her fingers, landing with a soft plop on the ground not far below. Brittany flicks the rest from her hands, smirking as she repeats, "Who is to know when we'll get the chance to bathe again?"

Santana grins wide as she plops down to the floor beside the trough and folds her hands deep into her lap. There's a thick layer of foam spread across the surface of the water, keeping Brittany's body well and hidden. Santana is grateful for the soap, so sure she wouldn't be able to keep her gaze above Brittany's neck otherwise. As it is, she must contain her urge to reach up and brush some wet sections of the courier's hair back over her bare shoulder. Instead she feels her face warming again, mouth dry as she whispers a simple, "Hello."

Brittany rests her chin on her arms and flicks a clump of bubbles toward the blushing doctor. She giggles as a few tickle Santana's nose. "Hello to you too."

Santana relaxes some as she wipes the soap from her nose. "How long have you been in there?"

Brittany raises her hands from where they dangle over the edge, inspecting her wrinkled fingers. "A long while," she replies, satisfied with her response. "The water feels nice. Mr. Hummel helped warm it for me."

"You didn't overexert yourself today, did you? Your shoulder is still healing you know."

"No, _Dr. San,_ I did not overexert myself," Brittany says with a chuckle and roll of her eyes. It's a move Santana isn't used to seeing cross the couriers face. In fact, it is more in line with her own expressions. Perhaps they have been spending enough time together to be picking up on each other's mannerisms. Santana's not as frightened by this as she feels she should be. Brittany pulls her bottom lip between her teeth as she sits back in her bath, her arms once more submerged in the water.

"Something strange did happen," she says, tone puzzled. "You know Montgomery? The horse we had outside the armory tent? When I went to fix him up to our wagon, he smelled an awful lot like piss."

"Horses piss," Santana says with a shrug, knowing full well the reason for Montgomery's stench. She waves Brittany's concern off. "I'm sure he'll be fine."

"But he hadn't peed. It was so odd..." Brittany trails off as she sinks lower into the trough, brow furrowed in thought. She looks up at Santana, curious. "You think he may have rolled in some? Like a dog?"

Santana blinks. "Sounds… reasonable."

"Hmm," Brittany hums before dunking her head under the water and emerging with a gasp. "There was something else that happened today."

Santana does not like the frown marring Brittany's face, nor the way the courier's eyes have considerably darkened. "Britt, what was it?"

"Scott Cooper came by," Brittany sighs, once more returning to the edge of the trough where instead of resting her arms atop the edge she lets them dangle down, swaying against the side. "I don't remember exactly what he said, it wasn't very nice. He's such a blowhard, but he had talked with your Pa… about you."

Santana scoots closer. "Do you think you can remember for me, what he said?"

"Your Pa gave him permission to…spark you," Brittany recalls, grimacing.

"Spark me? Brittany, this isn't eighteen-twenty; you can just say court or even pursue," Santana says between a laugh. She grows serious though upon realizing, "this seems more like entrapment though, if you ask me."

Brittany reaches forward, brushing the tips of her wet fingers against the back of Santana's hand. "I don't want him trying to entrap you."

"As if he could," Santana snorts, allowing herself to indulge in the way Brittany plays lightly with her fingers, threading a few between her own before slipping free once again. Santana smiles softly before turning her gaze up to Brittany's and telling her, "I don't know what I cannot believe more, that Scott Cooper thinks he has a chance or that my father actually showed an interest in my life."

"Your Pa hates me."

"My _Pa_ is the pustular wart rooted upon Satan's putrid ass."

Brittany slips back into her bath, her nose crinkled with disgust. "That's grubby, San," she says. "I'm going to have nightmares."

"Look, just… what I mean to say is don't worry about them," Santana implores, bridging the small gap separating her from the trough. She rests her hands upon the edge, leaning forward a bit over the water. Brittany is running her hands through her hair, untangling the last of the knots, face still scrunched with visions of warts passing before her eyes. When she feels one of Santana's hands upon her shoulder her eyes sharpen, gaze locking upon the doctor's. Santana smiles, though it's accompanied with a tired sigh. "Let it be. They're both bastards."

Brittany lets out a sigh as well. "I just didn't like the way he talked about you," she grumbles.

"Defending my honor already, huh?" Santana smirks, giving Brittany's shoulder a gentle shove as she stands to her feet.

"I love you, Santana. Of course I would," Brittany tells her as if it's the most apparent thing in this world. She giggles some as Santana sputters, the doctor's cheeks turning that endearing shade of red she's come to adore so. She very much wishes to press a kiss to one of them. Nay, both. As Santana suddenly busies herself with packing the many journals and books along her shelves, Brittany thinks she's well and clean enough. Without so much as a warning she steps out from the trough.

Santana can hear the splash and splatter of water as it meets the ground. Her heart gives a giant lurch in response. Her hands fumble upon the spines of her books as she keeps her back deftly turned. Even as Brittany comes to stand beside her, smelling fresh of soap and close enough that their shoulders brush, leaving Santana's sleeves a smidgen damp.

"I forgot to lay one out," Brittany says, smiling far too wryly for Santana's taste as she bends to collect a towel from where they're stacked on the bottom shelf.

Santana darts away – nay, leaps, Brittany thinks – over toward her father's night table when she stands upright again.

Brittany simply watches, amused as Santana stumbles into the small stand, the cigar box atop knocked to the floor in her haste to recover.

"Goodness, San," Brittany giggles, wrapping the towel securely around her body. "It's as if you think me Lucy."

But Santana doesn't quite hear her, not with her eyes rooted upon the contents that have spilled out from her father's box. "I believe my father has developed a dependency for opiates," she says as she collects a few empty opium vials from where they rest on the floor, surrounded by others and an empty syringe. She doesn't know whether to be surprised or if this was to be expected. It would certainly explain her father's… calmer disposition as of late.

"Well, he is a doctor," Brittany tells her, fixing up the buttons on her shirt. Santana spares a glance over her shoulder, pleased to find the courier at least half-dressed. She can't help but smile upon seeing that Brittany must have slipped on her socks first, mismatched and all. "Even the smallest of opinions is still important."

"Opinions?" Santana repeats, standing and meeting Brittany's gaze. "What do you mean?"

"Opiates right?" Brittany asks, slipping on her slacks next. She leaves them unfastened, hanging loosely from her hips as she gestures with her hands and says, "I thought that was just some fancy doctor way of saying opinion. Like when you say you need your teneculum but you just call it a tenny."

Santana blushes. She hadn't realized Brittany has overheard her with patients. "You… remembered that?"

Brittany shrugs, grinning. "I thought it was a darling nickname."

"It's just quicker to say it that way than to waste time—" she stops herself short, eyes narrowing at the look of amusement upon Brittany's face. "I don't have to justify my monikers to you."

"Do you have one?" Brittany asks, excited, bounding over and buttoning her slacks as she does. "Usually I think they make people look like big dopes but I think you'd look real _smart_ with a monocle. And _really_ attractive."

"No Britt, I don't have a monocle," Santana tells her with a confused shake of her head. This conversation has quickly derailed and she wishes to bring it back upon the focus. "How long have you been in that trough again? I think you've soap needing to be cleaned from your clogged ears."

"My ears are plenty fine," Brittany quips, coming to help collect the spilled items on the floor. She pauses when instead of cigars she finds supplies that should be contained within a surgeon's kit. "Why does he have them here?"

"I don't know but if he's using the infantry's supplies I must say _something_ ," Santana says as she collects the mess and places it back inside the cigar box.

"How do you know he's using them?"

"Why else would they be here, concealed like this?" Santana retorts, yet there is a softness to her tone. She doesn't wish to make Brittany feel as if her questions are unwelcome. The truth is she's just as puzzled over their appearance as the courier is of their purpose. "I must confront him."

"And have him hurt you again?" Brittany whispers, worried. She shakes her head, grabbing the box from Santana's hands and placing it atop Dr. Lopez's night table. "No. Just let him be. Just like you told me to let Cooper be."

"Brittany, this is different. Cooper's just a stupid boy. What my father is doing is _unprincipled_. He took an oath!" Santana exclaims then proceeds to recite; "'I will prescribe treatment to the best of my ability and judgment for the good of sick _, and never for a harmful or illicit purpose_.'"

"He's not a good man, San. You know that."

"But what if he's ill?"

"Then he's treating himself," Brittany shrugs, pulling Santana away from her father's side of the tent. "Don't think more on him."

"I share a tent with him Brittany. _It concerns me_ ," Santana wrenches her arm free, moving back toward the cigar box. "What could he have need of this much opium for?"

"I don't know," Brittany groans, frustrated with the doctor's stubbornness. She lunges forward, grabbing hold of Santana's arm again and pulling her away. "Maybe it's for those whores he sleeps with? Please stop fussing. If he finds out you're poking around his things and he gets mad _and hurts you again_ —"

Santana relents, Brittany's fear finally putting a stop to her insistence. "He won't. You're right. I'm done. I won't pry."

"Promise me you won't say anything to him," Brittany asks of her as Santana turns toward the courier.

"Brittany," Santana purses her lips.

" _Promise me_ , Santana."

It takes a moment longer than Brittany likes but eventually Santana leans into her embrace and whispers, "I promise."

* * *

The pleasantries of the evening fire are short and carried out upon a tense air. The other soldiers aren't afraid to hide their displeasure, sending a great deal of broken bottles and heated glares toward the small group. No one wishes to have their spirits raised, not when come morn they are headed south. So the group keeps reserved in their time together, never allowing their voices to carry too far beyond their fire.

Sam is only able to stay for a few minutes until he is ushered away for the last caravan. He's unable to keep the sorrowful grin from slipping from his lips. He'll miss his friends dearly, but is thrilled to be returning home.

They promise to write. Santana gives him the longest hug.

Michael is welcomed, Brittany quickly taking to him as they find a common appreciation in dance. Santana can see a change in the way Michael looks at Bret after the first quarter hour together. His eye is critical as if he's figured it all out without the slightest bit of prying. Of course he would have, she thinks when they end a dance and Michael almost bows to Bret as he would to his wife.

So Santana expects it when Michael pulls her aside while Brittany is filling Noah's mug and asks, "You do realize Bret is a woman?"

Santana nods, knowing this moment would have come eventually but grateful it has with Michael. "Brittany," she tells him simply.

He says nothing; merely sitting beside her as Noah drunkenly starts up another song. Bret falls into graceful steps in time to the tune, Brittany's movement's every-bit the man she feigns to be. Santana watches her, unable to draw the usual pleasure she does whenever she watches Brittany dance. Tonight is different. Tonight she watches Bret.

Michael's prolonged silence continues through the evening, even as he remains sitting beside her. It says more to her than any promise ever could. And when his gaze meets hers, understanding and resolute, Santana knows she can trust him to keep Brittany's secret.

But her sleep is fretful that night anyway, even with her father out for the night with yet another prostitute.


	10. Indefinitely

By dawn the next morning what remains of the regiment falls into line along the nearby road. The few wagons to survive the battle are loaded to the brim with supplies, food and armories. As they are pulled down the road their wooden panels creak loudly in the still morning air. The soldiers are quiet, dreading venturing further into enemy lands. They walk hunched; haversacks packed tight with their tents and meager possessions.

Onward they march to Tompkinsville, a town a little under a 100 miles south. Typically a six day journey for most expected to be completed in just under four.

Brittany walks beside Piedmont, the horse's reins held loosely in her hands. Burt sits atop, eyes riveted to the armory wagon wheels ahead while his lips remain pursed in a thin line. Brittany wishes he didn't look so troubled, but she also knows his expression is reflected upon every man in this regiment. Everyone has been silent since beginning the campaign. Even the young flute player, usually so adamant about keeping spirits high, has kept his instrument tucked deep inside his jacket. No one wishes to hear music of cheer, not when they fear and mourn with every step farther they take.

"All right down there?" Burt asks quietly after some time. They've traveled at least a few miles, Brittany thinks.

She gives him a smile despite the cramp forming along her side. "Tops."

Brittany has always hated lying. It just means having to remember something false when the truth is so much easier to retain. She wishes she could tell Burt the truth. Tell him _everything_. He is the closest thing to a mentor – nay, a second father— that she has here in the company. Would he still care for her as he does now if he knew who she truly is? Does being a woman matter all that much? Seeing Santana so accepted by Michael and her nurses makes Brittany feel that perhaps it doesn't. And isn't Santana always boasting to her of how some women in New York were able to get a Sanity Commission started for the war? It'd confused Brittany at first, why they wanted to form a commission for saneness. But when she saw Jacob Ben Israel trying to piss on that poor medic she thought it was a pretty good idea after all.

And an idea from women no less! _Bully for us,_ she thinks with a grin.

She also thinks Santana is wrong about people. The world is obviously changing for the better. After all, isn't that what this war is about? For everyone to be free? So that one day, she hopes very soon, her and Santana can be together and not have to hide behind tents or in the darkness anymore. Because even though Santana is beautiful no matter the time of day there is just something incredible about her beneath the sun. She doesn't disappear or blend into the shadows as she does in the night. Her eyes shine warmly in the light, sun kissing softly at her cheeks.

She's a vision.

Brittany wishes the doctor was closer. As it is Santana rides far ahead in the line with the other medical staff, too many soldiers marching between them for Brittany to even glimpse at the cart.

The armory wagon ahead of her jostles as it dips down into a rivet on the dirt road. It's been uneven for the last few hours, great sections of the path overgrown with grass and littered with rocks. It makes for slow travel and faster wear upon the wheels and axels of the wagons. Again the armory carriage jerks toward the left; this time the crates crash against the splintering back gate.

Brittany barely has time to move Piedmont out of the way as the iron clasp of the gate comes undone, the wood separator slamming downward on its hinges upon the release. Everything happens almost within the blink of an eye as half a dozen crates spill from out the back, breaking open as they collide with the ground and scattering their contents all along the dirt road.

The wagon driver, previously oblivious, stops upon a shout from a soldier.

No men pause, they simply carry forward in their march around the now-stalled wagon.

Burt eventually slips down from Piedmont, beat as he assesses the damage.

Brittany feels responsible for it all. Burt had charged her with securing those clasps. She swore she had seen to it they were well and set.

" _Another_ mess, Eunuch?" Cooper asks as he passes, never once breaking his stride. The look of gratification upon his face says all Brittany needs to know.

"You did this!" she growls, lunging forward toward him.

She's stopped as Burt grabs her around the waist, hauling her back with a whispered, "Bret, _no_."

"I didn't forget, Mr. Hummel!" Brittany exclaims, hot tears piercing at her eyes as she glares at Cooper's retreating break. She shakes free of Burt's hold, turning from him as she takes deep breaths to calm the fury she wishes to unleash upon that damned Scott Cooper. Of course he'd stoop this low, she thinks. He cares not for anyone but himself! She wipes quickly at her nose as she tells Burt thickly, " _I didn't_. Not this."

A solid hand is placed against her back, soothing in its touch. The tension coiled in her shoulders wanes as she lets out a long breath. "I know," Burt tells her quietly.

The clatter of horse hooves meets their ears. Someone approaches fast in a brisk trot. No sooner do they come round from the wagon's side then they find Captain Hartman riding up, his brow resting low over his eyes as he takes in the chaos before him. "What's happened here?"

"Unsecured lock," Burt supplies, stepping forward. "It was my fault, Captain. I take full blame."

The Captain runs his hand across his bearded face, a low groan rumbling in his throat as he sighs, "Hummel…"

Brittany cannot stand idly by as Burt is put to the Captain's fire. Scott Cooper will not sully Burt's name. She steps up. "It wasn't him. I forgot to secure the wagon," she says, eyes cast respectfully to the ground. "I'm sorry, Captain."

Burt's head snaps toward her; she can feel his surprised gaze upon the side of her face. She looks farther away.

"I'm relieving you of your post Pierce. This is..." Captain Hartman trails off, frustrated as his eyes scan the hundreds of scattered rounds littering the road. _His_ infantry's precious finite supply of ammunition now impossible to fully recollect. He can't believe the negligence of his courier. Pierce is always such a trustworthy private. Quite possibly one of the best couriers he feels he's ever been assigned. How wrong he'd been in his initial assessment, he thinks now. The boy can't even meet his eyes! With a grunt Captain Hartman turns his horse around and mutters down to Brittany, "Just clean this _god damned_ mess up. When we get to Tompkinsville report to Beiste."

Brittany gives a curt nod, her head bowed low. She wishes not for Captain Hartman to see the disappointment now etched upon her face or for the concern upon Burt's deepen so. She accepts full responsibility for the disaster Scott Cooper has left at her feet. It may take her all afternoon but she'll see to it that everything is in order once more. Just so long as that bluffin' bastard isn't given her post she can breathe easy. He doesn't deserve it, and she refuses to allow his heartless hands to ever touch Piedmont's mane let alone take control of his reins. But the more she thinks on it the more she realizes that without a horse to his name Scott Cooper will remain a lowly foot soldier. None of the soldiers in the cavalry would ever loan use of their most prized companions to the man who'd sent their horses into a fright. The pressure that was boiling deep inside her just moments before ebbs upon the revelation.

Brittany thinks Cooper may have succeeded in stripping Bret Pierce of his title but he has failed to lower her spirits.

And god knows Santana will be thrilled to hear that she won't be sent out on errands any longer.

No more wrinkles will need to be smoothed out upon the doctor's brow. There will be no more nights spent miles apart.

Perhaps being a cook's assistant won't be all that bad.

Being demoted to the griddles is a humiliation no soldier ever wishes to face. Dog Robbers aren't kindly thought of and even less kindly mentioned. But Brittany doesn't much mind her relegation. Beiste is always courteous to her whenever she goes to fill her bowl during supper. Sometimes the large man gives her a bit more, laughing as he exclaims how skinny Bret is.

"Bret?" Burt ventures cautiously once the Captain takes back off toward the line again. He wishes not to disturb his charge any more than he probably already is. He'd promised to do something about Cooper but he hadn't imagined the boy messing things up again so soon. _It's all my doing,_ Burt thinks. He still can't believe how easily Bret stood and took blame.

Brittany looks up at him and Burt is surprised to find Bret no worse for wear. Not an inkling of embarrassment can be found upon the poised face of the ex-courier. Bret gives him a small smile and a shrug before bending down to start collecting the discarded rounds.

"You are something else, Bret," Burt laughs as he drags out a crate and plops it on the floor beside Brittany. "Anyone here'd be cursing and hollering up a storm over this."

"Scott Cooper will get what's comin' to him," Brittany replies as she dumps a handful of rounds back into the hay-filled crate. "And I don't mind helping Beiste. I always did want to learn to cook."

* * *

_Tompkinsville, October 15th, 1862_

Come dusk, Brittany and Burt arrive in the small settlement of a town nestled against a quiet creek. The journey had been exceedingly difficult, especially given the wrecked condition of their armory wagon. For great swathes of time they lingered behind the regiment, slowly moving down the road, Brittany's feet blistering inside her weathered boots. She walked on, determined not to let the ache show nor accepting any of Burt's requests for her to ride upon Piedmont instead. She rested at night, bare feet propped up in the cool air whilst Burt tended to the wounds. Santana and the other medics were kept busy aiding men that had fallen ill during the march, the doctor unable to sneak away even for a moment to check upon Brittany. Brittany misses nights spent in Santana's company. She hopes now that they've arrived in Tompkinsville that things will return to the way they were once before.

The sun dips below the surrounding hills as they now make their way through the cluster of homes along the main road. Brittany can't help but notice the curtains drawn tightly over the windows and the grave stares of those sitting out on their front steps as they pass. She tries not to dwell on their outward scorn. They are but ten miles from the border of Tennessee and it is clear these folks don't think too highly of the northern army moving through their sleepy town.

One of the young boys sitting near his mother spits out at them before retreating inside his home.

His mother doesn't move to reprimand him and it's all the confirmation Brittany needs.

They aren't welcome. Not at all.

Colonel Wright must have wanted to avoid the sentiments of the locals. They find the camp pitched about five miles out from town.

Without further delay Brittany bids Burt and Piedmont a good evening before setting off on her new assignment. She finds Beiste easily enough. The man already has quite the line formed up at his griddle, even given the fact there are at least two other cooks in the infantry. Brittany isn't too sure where the others are though, the cooks seemed to keep their distance from one another for some reason or other. She suspects it's because Beiste is known to get quite rowdy at times.

Nevertheless, Brittany tugs down low on her cap as she approaches.

"Bret!" Beiste grins as he slops a great portion of stew into a bowl. Much more than he gave the previous man, a fact the soldier looks mighty shafted over. But Beiste cares not as he carries on, "Every time I see you it's like another bit of you has gone out to the wolves. You ain't nothing but bones and blue, boy! Gotta bulk you up, get some fat in them muscles."

Brittany accepts the bowl but in turn hands it to the next man in line.

Beiste turns to Brittany, an eyebrow quirked high along his forward. "What was that for?"

"Um, I was told to report to you," Brittany offers, fingering one of the buttons on her coat. She hasn't any idea why she's grown so timid all of the sudden, let alone around someone she's usually so at ease with. But this is yet another person for whom she must remember to maintain her demeanor. Another she mustn't forget to be Bret for. She'd almost slipped that night with the boys but dancing always catches her off guard. It is easy to be Bret for a few brief moments, after which she can merely walk away and keep to herself. But to carry on as Bret through the entirety of supper? And with someone as talkative and observant as Beiste? Brittany's dreading the coming hours. She's so very tired of all this lying.

"Well, I'm happy for the company," Beiste tells her as he fills another bowl full of stew and hands it off to the next lad in line. Brittany accepts an empty, dirtied bowl from another soldier and stacks it along the ground with the used bowls from the night. Beiste gives a heavy sigh. "But I ain't so happy for whatever reason it is that has brought you here. You're such a good boy, Bret. What chance struck you down leavin' ya lookin' about as useful as buttons on a dishrag?"

Brittany doesn't really understand what Beiste just said. The cook always speaks in a tongue only seldom few appear to understand. Whenever she and Santana collected their meals they made it a point never to dawdle too long. What is it Santana always said? " _God forbid he try and ask of our day. It'd probably involve at least twelve obscure references to hens and by the time we're able to answer our stew will have turned to ice and I will have died twice over in my grave."_

But Brittany knows the tone of disappointment well enough to know Beiste is very much disappointed with her. She keeps her head bent low as she replies, "I forgot something is all."

"Could you hand me a few of them there forks, son?"

"Yes, sir."

" _Ma'am,_ Bret. I'm no sir," Beiste chuckles. It sounds like the laughter of a gentleman and thus only confuses Brittany further.

"But, you're in slacks and your hair is so…manlike," Brittany decides. Yes, Beiste is very manlike indeed. All burly shoulders, tall stature and deep voice. She squints up at the so-called woman, wondering, "Are you _pretending_ to be a man?" But Beiste just gives another laugh, sucking in her gut to reveal two large and very obvious female breasts atop her chest. Brittany feels horrible for having assumed, blushing fiercely as she says, "I'm sorry you just look like one is all and—"

Beiste waves off her apologies with a goodhearted smile. "No offense taken, Bret. You're not the first to confuse me for a man. I'm afraid it's just the luck of the cards I was dealt. Built like a lumberer yet with the workins and wants of a woman. But Cooter don't mind none and I clean up real nice. He loves me just as I am. Married me and all!"

Brittany's eyes widen as she gapes up at Beiste. "You're married to Lieutenant _Cooter_?"

"Five years next month. When he got the news about enlistin' I followed right by his side. He didn't want me coming along of course but-You're welcome son," Beiste grins upon being thanked by a grateful soldier for his meal. She begins readying the next bowl Brittany hands her as she continues, "But no damned war is going to keep us apart! I ain't gonna sit at home twiddling my thumbs waiting for word from the lines," Beiste says, motioning out past the camp tents being erected along the fringe with her stew spoon. She turns back down to Brittany, giving a stir of her meal as she says, "Being a cook here keeps me busy, helpin' out you boys and lets me look after him."

"Then why ain't you using his name? Why Beiste?"

Beiste nods, understanding Bret's bewilderment. "You may call me Shannon and to be frank it's frowned on for soldiers to bring their wives along," she explains kindly. "We figured if I used my maiden name no one in records would think twice of us. Keep the quartermaster ignorant and you can bully well do as you please!"

"Bri- _et_!" Santana lets out a surprised gasp as she steps up to the griddle from her place in line. "What are you doing here? If this is about that cavalry horse that reeked of piss I can fully—"

Brittany shakes her head, "no. I'll explain later." She leans forward as she hands Santana a steaming bowl and whispers, "Did you know Beiste is a lady?"

Santana's eyes widen as her glaze flicks up to Shannon before locking upon Brittany's own.

Shannon chuckles. "I heard that Bret."

"Of course I know," Santana hurries out with a flippant nod of her head. "It's _obvious_."

" _It's not_ ," Brittany mouths.

Santana sputters, trying to quell a spell of giggles wishing to force their way out. Her cheeks burn red with embarrassment as she turns up to Shannon with a thin-lipped smile. "You'll have to excuse him, Miss Beiste."

"Mrs. Beiste," Shannon corrects.

Santana's lips thin even more as her eyes grow wider. Her gaze locks upon Brittany's, brows raising just a fraction as if conveying a silent, _truly?_

Brittany shrugs with a few nods in the affirmative.

Santana's grin broadens. "Lucky man," she says beneath her strained smile. "I'll be going now."

"Enjoy your supper!" Brittany calls after her.

"She's an odd one," Shannon says as her and Brittany fall back into their serving pattern. "None too sweet either."

"She is sweet," Brittany says. "Sort of like a…" she trails off as her eyes scan the assorted fruit and vegetables lining the crates beside the griddle. There aren't many; the majority almost rotten. A splash of orange catches her eye and she grins as her gaze lingers upon a particular favorite. "Like a pumpkin!" she beams. "You have to really dig into 'em before you can get to the good stuff. And she's real good inside, trust me."

"I believe ya, Bret," Shannon laughs, nudging her assistant in jest. "Now, how's about I get you started on another batch? The lads are hungry tonight! Come on boys! Get that molasses out from your britches and keep the line a movin'!"

* * *

It's well and late into the night by the time Brittany is able to start constructing her tent. It's slow work considering she was not involved in the assembling of her first. The men she'd shared the tent with prior had already seen to hoisting the canvas in place by the time she'd been assigned as their tent mate.

As she takes a step back to consider her work now, she feels a small bit of pride in having erected her very first shelter. Albeit one that looks entirely out of place beside the others, and missing a crucial support post she couldn't quite figure out the placement of. No matter, she thinks as she crawls inside, careful to avoid knocking the entrance post over. She'd done so once already and the entire tent had collapsed atop her.

The snickers of her neighbors were obvious in the quiet night air as she struggled free but again she paid them no heed. If only Noah were her tent neighbor instead she's sure he would have gladly lent a hand.

She settles down into her bedroll, spent from the day and wishing for sleep to take her swiftly into dreams. She'd had a pleasant dream the evening before; a dream of home and an afternoon spent lazing in the field with Santana and Emily by her side. _Nine days till she gets my letter_ , Brittany thinks with a tired smile as her eyes fall closed.

They snap open not a few minutes later when Santana slips inside the tent, letting out a muffled curse as her forehead smacks against the low-hanging center post.

"Are you all right?" Brittany asks, sitting up in her bed.

Santana either doesn't hear or does not care for the concern as she launches quickly into hushed questions of her own, " _What happened_? Why were you with _Beiste_? And be honest with me Brittany, if this is really about that horse—"

Brittany reaches forward, brushing her fingers over the spot on Santana's forehead where a bruise is sure to form. The gesture stills the words upon the doctor's tongue. "It's not about Montgomery," she whispers, gaze moving down to dark eyes. "Are you really that worried for him? That's so pumpkin of you, San."

Santana's brow creases. "Pumpkin? What? Nevermind, unimportant," she waves Brittany's comments off with a flick of her wrist. She scoots forward on the ground until she's even with Brittany's side, her back hunched so as to fit in the small space. "I came here to ask what happened. You were _hours_ late arriving and then helped Beiste serve _supper_. Since when have you been relegated to meal duty? _Why_?"

Santana is riled, of that much Brittany can plainly see. The doctor's dark eyes dart between her own, seeming to draw conclusions from whatever look it is Brittany is conveying. At the present Brittany just feels exhausted. And now that Santana has found her she wants nothing more than to curl into her side until morn. She feels the stress of the day once more upon her shoulders, eyes growing heavy as she answers simply, "Scott Cooper rigged up my wagon. All the ammo spilled out and Captain Hartman wasn't happy about it. He demoted me. Would you like to stay here tonight?"

Her question goes unanswered as Santana's eyes narrow and the doctor's jaw pops beneath her skin. " _Scott Cooper caused this_?" is all but hissed through clenched teeth.

"Yes, but San, it's all right," Brittany says, trying to quell the fire she can see brimming in black eyes. When her words do little to stop those eyes from darting toward the entrance Brittany reaches a hand forward, fitting her palm squarely over Santana's cheek. The fury in Santana's gaze falters at the touch. And when her eyes meet those of Brittany's it all but disappears with a stroke of the blonde's thumb along her cheek. "I like helping Shannon," Brittany tells her softly, smiling as Santana leans her head into her hand. "And just think, now you won't ever have to worry for me. I'll always be here with you."

It's precisely the assurance Santana needed to hear. And thus she is not in the least concerned when her body moves forward, a hand planted firmly on the ground as she closes the gap between them and captures Brittany's lips between her own. She can feel Brittany smiling into the kiss, the blonde's hand upon her cheek sliding back to tangle in dark hair instead. Brittany tugs her nearer, stomach a delightful flurry of sensations as she feels the tip of Santana's tongue along her top lip. The doctor is certainly full of pleasant surprises tonight. She grabs hold of Santana's dress front, pulling the doctor atop her as she deepens the kiss.

They fall down to the bedroll, lips slipping but for only a second until Santana pulls herself up and starts the kiss anew. She will never, _not ever_ , tire of being so intimate with Brittany Pierce. She's never been lit so ablaze, felt quite so alive simply by kissing another. And as she tentatively runs her tongue once more over the top lip of the woman below her she can't help but think that the thudding of her heart has never felt so profound. Nor the want pooling fast in her gut as Brittany tilts more into the kiss, lips parting at her whimpered request.

Brittany presses harder upward, elbows digging into the bedroll for support. Santana is desperate in her touch as she meets the blonde's craving. They come crashing back to the bedroll again, yet this time Brittany lets out a pained hiss when her shoulder meets the spine of her journal. Santana breaks from the kiss, pulling up sharply, worried by the sound.

Brittany gives her a smile, breathless, her mind still reeling as she tucks some dark hair over Santana's shoulder and tells her, "I'm sorry. My shoulder's still a bit sore from the spill. I don't think leaving my journal around like this helped much." She chuckles, plucking it out from beneath her elbow.

Santana sees no humor in what just occurred, nor in the way her temper spikes dangerously high. Still hovering above Brittany she leans down and presses a lingering kiss to a warm forehead. "Wait here, Britt."

Brittany sits up fully as Santana moves toward the tent entrance. "Where are you going?"

Santana doesn't answer, already pushing determinedly past the tent flap on her way out. She hopes Brittany does not follow for she truly does not wish for her to witness what she's to do next. It doesn't take her long to find him; he's still up at this hour, surrounded by a few of his insipid comrades as they carry on a conversation around a dying fire.

"Cooper," she calls for him, forcing as genial a smile to her lips as she can currently muster. When he looks her way it nearly wavers, but she holds fast, grin widening as she asks, "Could I a word?"

He stands to his feet, taking his time as he brushes down his slacks and waves off the slurs of his friends. His arrogance is betrayed both in the way he strides toward her and the expression on his face. Once standing before her, far too close for her comfort, he smirks and asks her, "Come around finally?"

Santana resists the urge to smack the conceit from his face. She's sure he'd be unable to survive very long without his ego inflated to a size that rivals that of her fathers. _No wonder they'd gotten on,_ she thinks now but shudders to imagine what else they could have discussed about her. She shakes the thoughts from her head, hair tumbling down to rest across her shoulders.

"I'm just worried for you," she tells him finally, voice low as she reaches up and gingerly touches the fresh bandaged wrapped over his ear. Cooper flinches and she pulls back, an expression of concern now etched upon her features. "How is it? It must hurt something fierce."

"It does, but I'm toughing through it," Cooper replies, confident once more.

"That's good to hear," Santana smiles. Cooper barely begins to return the gesture when that same hand she'd use to touch him so gently grabs hold of the side of his head, her thumb digging through the dressings over his damaged ear. He lets out a pained cry, spine bending forward quickly, trying to alleviate as much pain as possible. Santana pulls his head closer, her grip relentless as she growls out, "because if you _ever_ pull another stunt on Bret I will not hesitate to even out your _situation_. You are the damned scum that festers beneath an orphaned shithouse and my patience with you has thinned to the point of combustion. Am I making myself _clear_?" she hisses out the last of her words and he nods vigorously. She releases him with a shove, her glare piercing straight through him as she wipes the blood staining her fingers off upon his lapels. She pats his chest afterward, grinning even as he struggles to regain his breath. "Wonderful. Have a pleasant night."

Santana returns to Brittany's tent shortly thereafter, pleased with herself.

Brittany is still sitting upon her bedroll when she enters, wearing the same look of confusion that was on her face when Santana left. "Where did you go?" she asks as Santana crawls toward her side.

"Nowhere of relevance," Santana smiles, hoping for a kiss in lieu of an interrogation.

"San," Brittany implores, halting Santana as she leans forward. She directs the doctor's gaze upon her own, frowning as Santana continues to hold her tongue on the matter. Brittany knows she's gone somewhere, done something that has to do with the cause of her shoulder ache. Eventually Santana relents beneath Brittany's scrutiny. Her shoulders fall whilst an audible sigh pushes past her lips.

"I confronted Cooper," Santana tells her. "Oh, don't look at me like that Britt, I didn't _maim_ him." She keeps her mouth smartly shut in regards to the extent of the damage done.

Brittany sighs, regardless. Fighting fire with rocks never did anyone any good. _It just leaves you with hot rocks_ , she thinks. Better cold rocks. They are easily forgotten when not paid any attention. "Just leave him be," she requests. "He'll get what's coming to him."

"Oh he _will_ ," Santana smiles. It's a bit wicked, Brittany notes. "I don't doubt that."

"I can handle things on my own," Brittany tells her, not wishing for Santana to interfere any longer. God forbid Scott Cooper try and foul up her surgery procedures next instead. She wills herself not to think of such horrid things. It's easy to do so with such a beautiful woman right before her, even with crinkles forming over the doctor's smooth brow. Brittany finds herself smiling softly as she tells Santana, "You worry far too much."

Santana gives her a crooked smirk. "I believe you already know what I will say to that."

She does, very much so. It's what has her saying, "I love you." And then asking again, "Will you stay tonight?"

Santana's mind was made up long ago and thus she answers by motioning for Brittany nudge over. Brittany happily complies, throwing the blankets around them both once Santana has settled. Brittany yearns to scoot nearer, perhaps drape an arm around Santana's waist. She could pull the doctor closer until a warm cheek rests against her shoulder as it had those many nights ago. But she also wishes not to recall why they'd clung so desperately to the other, instead choosing to remember just how wonderful it'd felt to have Santana tucked beside her.

She can hardly believe this is only the second time.

It's a fact that spins so dizzyingly in Santana's head she can hardly find the strength, let alone the will, to stop clutching at the bedroll as if she will simply drift away otherwise. There is no other reason for her to stay besides her simple desire to do so. And perhaps the bit of a pout Brittany put on as she'd asked. It had, naturally, been charmingly swaying. The pout is long gone now, the slight trace of a content smile just beginning to tug at the corner of Brittany's mouth.

They lay facing one another, the blankets cozily piled high on Santana's shoulders and strewn haphazardly over Brittany's side. Santana's hold upon the bedroll relaxes, nerves uncoiling. She's hyper-aware of the sensations that now fill the void left by her needless reservations. They prickle along her skin at first, a shiver of sorts that leaves her impossibly warm and exceedingly delighted. It's fairly close the feeling she gets after a few too many tips of good bourbon down her throat. Yet her feelings now are unencumbered by the haze of alcohol. They have formed all on their own, all due to a simple look.

Santana's dark eyes are intently focused upon the smiling pair before them, unable to turn away nor wishing to. She's attended to countless blue-eyed patients, from the deepest of cobalt to the sharp pierce of the nearly-grey. Beautiful shades all wasted upon the ugliest of characters. From a place of strict observation she doesn't find anything too remarkable about the color of Brittany's eyes. They're a dull blue only made darker, muddier, in the night enveloping the tent. They are easily looked over, and even more easily disregarded. _Simple eyes for an equally simple soul_ , she thinks. And yet somehow brighter, more emotive, more _full of life_ than all the others she's ever held the gaze of, or thinks she ever will. And now these extraordinary eyes gaze upon her own, filled with warm adoration and endless patience.

Santana feels utterly undeserving of being the focus of these eyes… but she also. selfishly, wishes it no other way.

Somewhere in the distance beyond the tent a fire crackles into the night, breaking each woman's concentration.

Brittany has so many things she wishes to tell Santana; how beautiful she finds the shy blush burning in the darker girl's cheeks. How she's longed for them to share a tent again. How itchy her socks have become and perhaps it would be best if Santana's feet were to warm her own instead. But there is the issue of her blisters to contend with and she wishes not for Santana to worry any further for her. So she remains reclined, a lazy smile upon her lips, one hand tucked beneath her scarf pillow as the other slowly searches across the bedroll for Santana's.

Santana burrows deeper into the blankets, curling her knees up a might as Brittany's fingers brush across her own.

"Chill?" Brittany asks, leaning herself down closer.

Santana shakes her head, giving her wrist a slight twist. Brittany's hand slips down along her palm, fitting against Santana's. _Effortless, as always_ , Santana muses. She is reminded of what else she sought Brittany out tonight for. "I've need to tell you of something," she says, tone somber.

Brittany's eyes squint in question even as she gives a tug upon Santana's hand, pulling her closer.

"Michael knows," Santana whispers, her hold upon Brittany's hand tightening.

"Knows what?" Brittany asks quietly, snuggling down against Santana, worried for the hesitant tone upon the woman's voice.

Santana draws a deep breath before telling her, "That you're a woman."

Blue eyes widen quickly as Brittany rolls to her back. "Did you just go and tell him?"

"No, he approached me, at the fire before the march," Santana explains, resting her chin atop Brittany's shoulder. When Brittany remains laying beside her, eyes focused upon the canvas ceiling Santana reaches up, pressing her palm upon Brittany's jaw. Brittany turns her head, eyes locking upon Santana's. "He's not going to tell anyone, Britt," Santana says softly.

"I'm not fretting," Brittany says, a small smile crossing her lips. She rolls back to her side. "I'm happy someone else knows. I like him," she whispers, bridging the small space separating them to plant a reassuring kiss upon Santana's lips. As she pulls away she gives Santana's waist a playful poke. "And I know you like him too."

"He's all right," Santana relents after a moment, sniggering as Brittany continues poking at her side. "Must you kee- _eep_ at this?"

"You're just as ticklish as Emily," Brittany notes, running a few of her fingers up Santana's torso. Santana squirms beneath the teasing touch, letting out a squeal that quickly dissolves into another burst of animated giggles. The sound is so unlike anything Brittany's ever heard pass from Santana's mouth. It's infectious and only spurs Brittany's grin all the wider.

" _Cease_!" Santana manages to breathe out between her laughter, swatting at Brittany's hands. "Someone will _hear_!"

"The only one who can hear us is Lucy," Brittany tells her as she finally relents and lies back down beside Santana.

"You brought…. the _snake_?"

"Well, I just couldn't _leave_ her. It's too dangerous," Brittany replies as she wraps her arms around the appalled doctor and pulls her close once more. "Anyway, she can't even hear that well."

"How would you know?" Santana asks, amused before an answer strikes her and she gives an exasperated sigh. "Please don't tell me you asked her."

"I can't speak snake, San," Brittany says with a giggle. She sticks her tongue out, staring down at it before righting her face once more. With utmost seriousness she explains, "My tongue isn't long enough. Besides, snakes don't have ears. They have to _feel_ instead."

"I dare not even ask where you learned this."

"Why not?" Brittany questions, upset by Santana's doubts. "I learned it myself," she begins proudly then smiles sheepishly. "Well, with Emily's help, of course. You see, sometimes in the summer it gets too hot in Lima to do much anything aside from melt. Emily and I would go down to the lake for a swim but the water would be too full of green muck. Pa hated it when we came home with it tangled in our hair, it'd take him _hours_ to try and get it all out. And it smells something awful. Tubbington always tries to play with it and I think it's because it must reek of fish. He would probably eat it too if Pa gave him the chance."

Santana props her head up on her raised hand. "Brittany," she says as the other woman pauses to breathe. She chuckles. "What has this _anything_ to do with snakes?"

"Oh!" Brittany finds her cheeks warming under Santana's amused expression. "Right, well, sometimes, when we don't want to swim because of the muck we lay in the shade of the trees," she explains, tracing the outline of a squat oak upon the back of Santana's hand. The touch is light, delicate. Santana finds herself both soothed and alight by it. Her eyes dart back up to Brittany's face. The blonde is still contentedly focused upon drawing shapes on Santana's hand as she continues, "If we stay still long enough the forest critters start coming back round to drink again. Deer mostly but they scare real easy. The bunnies too. But the snakes never much cared if we made any noise or not. They'd keep sittin' on their rocks and I imagine it's where they like to take a sun nap so I tried to be extra quiet at first, not wanting to wake 'em. But Emily can never be quiet for long. They'd only ever slither away if we walked too near. They could feel our steps, tap, tap, tap," Brittany says, walking the tip of her finger up Santana's arm. She grins as she meets the doctor's gaze. "Though in their bellies, since snakes don't have arms."

"Even with the muck and the heat and the stupid snakes," Santana tells her with a shaky smile. "I'd really like to see your lake."

If possible Brittany's eyes seem to brighten in the dark of the tent. "Spring is best, if you'd like, maybe, to come stay for a bit," she says, toying with the sleeve of Santana's dress. "I'd like it very much if you did."

Santana takes hold of Brittany's hand, lacing it with her own. "And if I wished to stay through summer?" she inquires.

Quietly, unable to contain the smile now spreading across her lips, Brittany answers, "I'd like that very much too."

Santana presses closer. "And winter?" she asks to which Brittany bites her bottom lip and nods. Then softer yet Santana asks, "Indefinitely?"

"You wouldn't be afraid?" Brittany whispers, voice fast filling with hope. "To come home, with me?"

"I would be, _am_ ," Santana admits. She is very much afraid; the familiar feeling stings in her chest now just thinking of such a future. Santana fears it will never cease to plague her so, even wrapped safely in Brittany's arms as she is now. It will always be there, sometimes hidden deep beneath her affections for the blonde, but waiting in the shadows of her heart nonetheless. Sure to be set off by an accusation. Or even the slightest of inquisitive stares.

A life to be spent in a constant state of apprehension.

All because she fell in love with Brittany Pierce.

The thought echoes in her mind, sentiments held within wrapping as thoroughly around her heart as Brittany's arms have her body. _I love her_ , she thinks, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth as the stinging in her chest intensifies. As it always will, _indefinitely..._

And as the hope that once burned so brightly in Brittany's eyes fades at her silence, Santana knows she cannot withhold her feelings from the woman any longer. "You must understand Brittany," she begins softly, ardent. "I've never felt… _this_ way for anyone. It terrifies me, every day, knowing I can't stop these feelings I hold _for you_. That because of them you could be at risk. And I can't—" Santana chokes, her voice suddenly thick with tears. Brittany looks crestfallen by the halt of her words and Santana feels her own heart twisting at the expression.

She reaches up quickly, cupping Brittany's jaw in the palms of her hands, and continues, voice hushed yet unwavering, "I can't bear the thought of losing you, not in _any_ way... I-I love you, and... and I just want this _damned_ war to be over so we can go to Lima because that's the only place I've _ever_ considered home. Some farm in god knows where Ohio with Apple, and Tubbington, and Daisy, Louie—I know I'm forgetting so many—your Pa, Emily, and _you_ Brittany. My home is _with you_."

Brittany is stilled by the admission, her mouth parted, air no longer coursing through her lungs. She hadn't expected such an impassioned confession to be spurred from her question. To be honest, she had rightly set herself up for quite the opposite. Santana always buries her emotions. She tucks them deep inside her where Brittany knows the fear keeps them as guarded as the watchmen do their encampment. Yet even the best of protections are still with their flaws, cracks allowing that which they keep to escape. Brittany has never been more proud of Santana than she is in this moment. Because this Santana, this vulnerable and unguarded and _devoted_ Santana, has finally broken through her own walls.

Brittany cannot stop the grin now working across her face, nor the crinkles she can feel creasing the corners of her eyes. She thinks it took Santana damn long enough to come round to what she's been telling her for ages now. But she won't say such aloud. Not when she'd rather be kissing her instead.

Santana is pulled flush against Brittany with a yank, the smallest of yelps escaping her throat before warm lips are pressed squarely over her own. She breathes out through her nose, relaxing as she smiles into the kiss Brittany has thrown her in. Their mouths are smashed together, Brittany much too thrilled to pay attention to what she is doing, and squeezing Santana close. Neither much cares and Brittany's lips remain entirely secured around Santana's upper one for a few seconds longer. Finally she lets up on her enthusiasm, lessening the pressure of the kiss in favor of kissing Santana thoroughly.

It is a move that Santana is more than willing to reciprocate, evidenced by the heat burning down through her torso as she moves atop Brittany, their kiss never ceasing in its intensity. What had started so innocently quickly grows physical. Brittany's hands once clutched into the dress at Santana's back slide down past the doctor's waist. She can feel Santana's muscles twitch beneath her fingers, a deep moan rumble from the doctor's throat.

"I love you," Brittany manages to breathe out as Santana brushes a line of kisses down her jaw. A gasp pushes past her lips when Santana fixes on a spot just below her ear. " _Especially_ now," comes out as nothing more than a satisfied groan.

Hearing Brittany so roused, speaking in a voice that is somehow deeper than the one she uses for Bret, has Santana's heart thudding hard against her chest and her mind growing foggy with want. And yet despite the heat running through her veins it's those three words that have her clinging to Brittany, her nose nuzzling against the blonde's ear as she whispers shakily back, "I love you as well."

Their lips crash together once more, Brittany pushing herself up to her elbows. Yet after a few moments all their frenzy ebbs, the kiss slowing, smiles returning.

As they pull apart, breathless, gazes locked warmly upon the others, Brittany whispers, "I'm sorry our home for now is so poor."

Santana lets out a chuckle. "It's not so bad," she says pushing Brittany gently down to the bedroll before resting her cheek snugly against the woman's good shoulder. As Brittany draws the blankets back over them both Santana presses a soft kiss to Brittany's neck. "You make a great home, Britt."

"Next time I'm going to ask Noah to help me."

"He'll be as useful as Lucy."

"She made sure no boys bothered me."

"I still cannot believe you brought her."

"I still can't believe you said you love me. I'm never going to be able to sleep now, you know. I'm all tingly still, can you feel it?"

Santana's eyes fall closed as she nuzzles against Brittany's collar. The blonde's heart beats a loud rhythm against her ear, one Santana is sure mirrors her own. A content grin spreads across her lips as she tells her, "Yes, Britt. I can feel it."

* * *

November is fast upon the regiment. The men of the infantry have grown restless in the passing weeks. Every waking day has been filled with drills in preparation for a battle that never seems to come. The paths to their tents have been trodden so frequently the grass has ceased to grow. Horses have even memorized their route to pasture without need of hand or guide.

Tompkinsville has become home to many, despite the oft insensitive nature of the townspeople. They are easily ignored, too few in number to make much a nuisance.

And with no Postmaster to boot.

A month has gone by with no word from home. Every day Brittany wakes wishing she could just leap upon Piedmont and race back to Mackville in hopes that all the infantry's letters from home are simply pilling up at the Express Carrier's door, waiting to be read. She knows the man is lazy, and what more, the absence of mail these past few weeks only reinforces further in her mind how much of a coward so many carriers must be. She knows how dangerous the roads are but these men agreed to their work. They _volunteered_ to deliver those letters through the harshest of lands.

But she cannot fault them for her frustrations. The minute the regiment crossed to southern lands was the minute they lost their ties to home. She only hopes one day soon a carrier will arrive. In the interim she busies herself with her work alongside Shannon and Burt.

Though, as of late, mostly Shannon.

Brittany is abhorrent at cooking, a fact Shannon has tried many a time to amend. At least a dozen men were holed in the medical tent, their stomachs an angry mess, whenever Shannon gave Brittany control of the griddle. Yet with the failure of one endeavor came success in another. With nothing to pass her time during the day and the horses well and tended to, Brittany took to lessons with Shannon in stitching. At first it was a simple button mend, something Brittany was in dire need of. By that week's end Bret Pierce could be found minding his time outside Burt's tent, sewing scarves for the coming winter.

They weren't particularly good scarves, many lopsided and threadbare. But none who received them would dare see the smile upon Bret's face fall at the gift. Burt's scarf is now more padding for his pillow; Michael's ten inches shorter than the rest and affixed to his medic apron as a rag. Noah's is proudly wrapped all four times about his neck, stuffy and itchy, and the three in Santana's care all neatly folded upon her shelves save for the one she wears loosely about her shoulders and tucked, hidden beneath her winter coat.

She's kept every note Brittany delivered along with the scarves.

_To San,_

_May this keep you warm, even theoh you have a coat and gloves all ready. Im sorry its not your favrite colour. All Shannon has is blu. I love you._

_B_

_Dear San,_

_I made you another as you said you really loved the last. Im sorry you now have 2 blue scarves so I made this one wider. I love you and canot wait for tonite._

_B_

_Dearest San,_

_I apologize again for giving you another blue scarf. So this one I made thinner. Burt told me Kurt said thin scarves were in fashion now. I hope you look beautiful with this one. You always look beautiful though. I love you, indefinatly._

_B_

It takes all Santana's willpower not to seek Brittany out and kiss her senseless whenever she rereads them. But they have an agreement, one Santana finds harder and harder to abide by everyday. Brittany must remain Bret and the only allowances in her façade are when they are alone or with only Michael as company. The man is a godsend, Santana thinks at times, when Michael gives Brittany tips on being a man. And also in the medical tent when her days are long and frustrations high. He is ever calm by her side, rolling his eyes in good jest at her tirades but standing firm upon the lashings delivered to her by her father. She wants so badly to shout at him of his dependency whenever he feels need to belittle her. But she always holds her tongue, remembering her promise to Brittany.

Michael never speaks up either, but as Dr. Lopez takes his leave, he always tells Santana how better a doctor she is for, "he has lost all sight of humanity whereas you have embraced compassion. Don't let his words strike you down. You are better than him, in _all_ regards."

No matter how much she wills herself not to pay her father's callous words any thought they still pain her. She is so grateful for Michael's presence. The smile she manages to give him in thanks is always returned tenfold.

And once the sun sets and Brittany is free from her duties beside Shannon, Santana seeks the blonde out. They join Noah and Michael beside a fire, sometimes for a song but mostly for the company.

The small group has made it a ritual of sorts, something Noah considers the very best part of his day. He hates to leave them once the fire has died and the stars all shine brightly in the sky but sleep calls to him, the liquor in his belly warm and welcome. Yet even in his half-awake state he can always see Bret leading Santana back to her tent. Sometimes their arms are linked, other times nothing but their littlest fingers. He knows they think the dark hides them in its shadow but it's impossible to miss their connection.

Sometimes he thinks even Finn can see it way up in Heaven.

Brittany and Santana like to think they're careful when they're together, always mindful of the eyes that could be watching them. Brittany hates hiding, but understands where Santana's concern is born. Dr. Lopez has been watching them closely these past few weeks, his gaze none-too-accepting whenever he sees them walking through camp together. Santana is always quick to release their hands and distance herself whenever they draw near where he may be. But she always makes up for those moments at night, when she sneaks into Brittany's tent, long after the men of camp have fallen asleep, and rouses the woman from her dreams with the lightest of kisses trailed across her cheek.

Brittany has long-since stopped being surprised by the visits. She looks forward to their time alone, when they can share in each others thoughts, no matter how much her own seem to either amuse or puzzle the doctor. Santana always listens raptly, sometimes brushing her fingers through Brittany's hair. At some point one turns to the other, a look softening. Lips meet, touches growing bolder, kisses venturing further.

Brittany cannot wait till the war is over. Till she's back in Lima, by her sister's side with Santana standing on her other. It's that mental image that keeps her spirits high as she works throughout the day. Until she can be with Santana once more at night, wrap the doctor in her arms and kiss her until there's no breath left in her lungs.

* * *

_Tompkinsville, November 17th, 1862_

They're jostled awake by gunfire. Brittany snaps to first, springing up on her feet. Santana lets out a muffled cry as the tent support is knocked from its lone post and the beam, along with Brittany, come crashing down atop her.

" _Don't move_ ," Santana whispers, wrapping her arms tightly around Brittany, even as the blonde attempts to pull herself away. The sound of rifle fire grows louder. Screams pierce into the night. Brittany buries her face against Santana's neck, trembling as shots whiz overhead and the flares of fire glow bright against the downed tent.

When nothing save for the sounds of their heavy breaths fills the air Santana finally relaxes her hold on the quivering woman. A wide blue gaze locks upon her own, the fear held within sending a shock of chills to run down Santana's bruised spine. Brittany's pupils are pinprick sharp, even in the dark of the tent.

"It's over," Santana breathes out, hoping her soft assurance will quell the stilling look in those blue eyes. When Brittany remains on top of her, hands not soon to release their hold upon her dress, Santana reaches up, brushing the back of her fingers across Brittany's cheek. "Britt, we're all right."

The effect is instantaneous. Brittany's eyes flutter shut as she turns into the touch, exhaling deeply. She fills her lungs just as slowly, allowing her eyes to open once more and settle upon the woman beneath her. Santana thinks she preferred the sharpness of Brittany's gaze a mere few moments prior. Even though the look was stilling, she could understand the woman's fear… lessen her worries. Now those blue eyes have grown so dark, and so very unguarded. Santana doesn't know what to make of the haunted look, nor the way it seems to penetrate so thoroughly inside her. Brittany's whispered words do little to subdue her mounting apprehension.

" _What of the men_?"

They pull themselves free from the downed tent.

And no sooner are they standing that Brittany takes hold of Santana's hand at the sight of the bullet-ravaged bodies littering the ground.

Santana squeezes the hand tightening within her own. "Find Burt, stay with him," she instructs when the pained moans of a few of the men reach her ears. She hates to have to leave Brittany, but she cannot leave these men. Their time is already running short. She quickly bends to the downed tent, retrieving Brittany's cap. "I need to help as many of them as I can," she says, fixing it atop the shell-shocked woman's head. "Brittany," Santana turns Brittany's chin toward her gently.

With a few blinks of her eyes Brittany focuses. "Burt…" she recalls the doctor saying. As her mind grows sharp once more she nods. "I'll go to him. Please be careful, San."

Santana manages a strained smile, mind spinning a thousand thoughts as she tells her, "You as well."

The doctor gets straight to work, heading toward the nearest soldier. Santana's boots are strewn, forgotten, in Brittany's tent as the blonde digs her own out and quickly slips them on her feet. She takes off in a sprint toward the center of camp, relieved to find it unharmed. The soldiers are alert, many with rifles armed as Captain Hartman gives them their orders. Brittany doesn't bother to stop as she rushes past, only hearing the last end of his command.

Noah is among the men; the briefest of reassured smiles crossing his face when he sees her dash by. Where there is Bret, Santana is always close by. They'd survived the attack and to him, that is all that matters. He double-checks the rounds in his gun, locking his hammer in place as he heads out with his assigned group. The greybacks couldn't have gotten too far, the Captain told his men. And Noah is determined to down as many of those cowards as he can tonight.

* * *

Burt is calming a panicked Piedmont when Brittany arrives at his tent.

"Bret! Thank god!" Burt exclaims, relieved beyond measure to see his charge unscathed. He tries to pull Bret into a hug but Piedmont rears and he must give a yank on the horse's reins instead. "Easy now!"

"You have to say it softer," Brittany tells him as she steps up to the horse, mindful to stay within Piedmont's line of sight as she approaches slowly. "Easy now, Piedy," she whispers, slipping the reins from Burt's hand into her own. Piedmont snorts, jerking his head back. Brittany presses onward, hand extended, expression calm. The horse shakes his great mane, scuffing his front hoof along the dirt. "Easy," Brittany repeats as her hand presses against his neck and she strokes a soothing pattern up to his jaw.

Piedmont quiets, his nerves calmed as Brittany scratches a spot just below his ear that she knows he enjoys.

"I don't know how you do that," Burt tells her, astonished.

"Hummel," Captain Hartman calls as he hurries over, a familiar leaf of paper clutched in his hand. His gaze lands upon Brittany, eyes hardening before he lets out a heavy sigh. "I need this sent immediately."

"There's not a telegraph around for _days_ ," Burt tells him, worried for what this mission could mean for Bret. If it was even Bret the Captain was tasking with the errand. "Do you expect Bret to run this back through Lexington?"

"There's an illicit telegraph post in town," The Captain explains. "How else do you imagine they found us out?"

"Do you wish me to go?" Brittany asks, hesitant as she brings Piedmont forward.

Captain Hartman seems to struggle with his words for a moment before finally relenting with a nod and a resigned, "Yes. The cavalry barely has control over their steeds. Half of them ran off to shit knows where. Get this sent out quickly. Colonel Wright expects a reply in a few hours time."

A skirmish is what Brittany has found the slaughter has been called. It says so, just there, on the telegram she is being sent to deliver. For once Brittany's unfailing fidelity to the North wavers. This was no skirmish; how could the Colonel ever think to deem it such? Did he not care for the men who lay dying at her feet? For those now in Santana's care and sure not to survive through the night? How could he have sent them here, to this place full of those opposed to everything the union stands for right down to the very color of their coats…

 _This is a lie_ , she thinks as she hands the telegram over to the soldier now commanding the lone telegraph in town. She can see the owner, scowling from where he stands flanked and cuffed by two more union soldiers.

"You'll see your reaping day," he spits out at her as she meets his incensed gaze. "All you damned yanks!"

It's not long after they receive word back from Cleveland. The regiment is to join with the 39th Brigade; an encampment already positioned two days march south.

They are to spend the winter deep in the thick of Confederate Tennessee.


	11. The Lies We Spin

Hartsville is a charming mill town consisting of a few hundred people or so. They pride themselves in their homes. Row upon row of large brick estates line the surrounding hillsides of the town center. The smell of fresh cut wood still lingers in the air about the lanes, proof of the recent construction of the large veranda porches wrapping around the homes. The sudden prosperity of the town is most evident in the young oaks planted out front the households. The small trees, once full of fall leaves, are now bare as they sway in the chill winter air. Snow has yet to fall but the people of Hartsville expect it soon.

Just as they expect for more Northern troops to join the regiment currently posted in what can only be described as their back yards. The town's folk pity those living upon Herod Lane. Behind the houses of the southernmost, and once picturesque landscape, lays the northern encampment, the tents very much intruding upon their properties.

The locals are neither welcoming nor put off by the Federal settlement. It was expected, really, for their town to play host for yet another winter. So long as skirmishes are kept from their town center, and their daughters from the wandering eyes and ever more so wandering hands of the young soldiers, they are otherwise indifferent to the Northern regiment's proximity. If only it weren't such an eyesore, they think, as the families of Herod Lane sit in their homes and stare out past their elegant verandas at the tents pitched just down the hillside.

The North have built nothing more than a shoddy winter encampment poised a few hundred feet from the Cumberland River. Less than a dozen cabins stand in the middle of the seemingly endless tents; more effort and time spent to bring comfort to a select few of the regiment than to the soldiers who will be sure to freeze inside their small canvas shelters. It's a fact that brings much distress to Santana as she and her father unpack their belongings inside one of the single room cabins. It's smaller than their previous tent by at least half, the space so confined they find themselves constantly brushing against the other as they carry out their work.

She dreads the coming weeks they are to spend confined in such close quarters. Their beds are separated by a mere foot of space. Their once full bathing trough is now relegated to a quarter of the size and pushed beneath her father's writing desk for space allowance. He's already filled the entirety of their lone bookcase with his possessions, leaving Santana to stuff hers beneath her cot instead. As she sits down upon the bed she can feel the books, cases and kits prodding against her spine.

She thinks perhaps Brittany's cumbersome bedroll is for once the better option.

"This is madness," she can hear her father grumbling every time he attempts to wedge another of his materials into the bookcase.

She merely rolls her eyes before staring once more out the tiny window placed just a foot from the low hanging roof. The sky outside is a stormy mix of whites and greys, the clouds so thick in the heavens they form a smooth blanket clear across the horizon. Santana cannot reach the pane to press her fingertips upon the glass, but she is sure if she could the window would be cool to the touch.

They've moved further south and yet somehow the bite of northern winter winds has followed them. Inside the cabin though, the warmth is becoming unbearable— most of it, Santana knows, attributed to the craze her father is displaying as he scuttles about in a steaming cloud of his own repressed rage.

He'd, naturally, been affronted and annoyed upon receiving their lodging assignment. Their cabin was by far the smallest, not only in space within but also in height. A fact Santana had found increasingly amusing as her father ducked to enter the doorway only to find he could stand fully erect once inside whilst the Colonel and Quartermaster stood with spines and heads bent to accommodate their statures. They'd apologized of course, attributing the cabin as a fluke; it was the first that had been constructed before a better team was charged with the rest.

"But she'll do you just fine," Colonel Wright chuckled, knocking with his fist against the slanted roof. "Sturdy, good wood. You'll keep high and dry come first snowfall, something many a soldier here will gladly give an arm for soon."

"The cabin is satisfactory," Dr. Lopez told him with a tight-lipped grin from beneath the unshaven beard now sprouted upon his face. It was a hideous sight to behold, Santana thought, all black and peppered with flecks of grey. He scratched at his cheek as the Colonel and Quartermaster gave approving nods before taking their leave.

Her father's eyes now land upon the trough tucked beneath his table. "Absolute madness," he mutters again.

With the small fire extinguished in their equally maddeningly small stove, she and her father take off for the medical tent. Introductions are in order and they hasten in their steps so as to not arrive late. The tent is but a few yards down the lane from their cabin. They almost walk clear past it until Santana spots Michael out front, waving her over.

The medical tent, or as the soldiers here have deemed it, the field hospital, is smaller than their last yet expected to accommodate an encampment three times the size. The only solace Santana takes from her afternoon tour is that there is already a senior Major placed in charge of the medical operations. Her father will have to swallow his inflated pride and take orders from another for once in his life.

Though as she carries out her chore of folding down more clean bed sheets she doubts he will have any trouble taking out his frustrations on that matter upon her. So long as they are upon her and not focused toward Brittany, Santana thinks she can handle whatever her father feels need to lash at her. She's endured his existence, his insults and hand for twenty-two years; she knows she will continue to do so for the entirety of their stay in Hartsville.

As for Brittany though, she hopes the courier is finding her day unfolding far better than hers. She hates to imagine Brittany struggling, especially given the woman's perchance for confusion and in an encampment so large too boot.

It's a thought similarly spinning through Brittany's mind as she helps Burt to distribute the crates from within the mended armory cart. She can't quite believe the sheer size of the encampment. Even from atop the hills as they'd arrived she could not see the end to the tents spread out down the field, some even encroaching upon the line of trees flanking the river below. If the southerners wished to ambush them as a small contingent had in Tompkinsville, she knows it will not end well for them in such a cloistered camp. One well placed round of cannon fire will be sure to down at least twenty men.

The thought brings a shudder to her even now, all these hours after the image originally passed through her mind.

"Last one, Bret," Burt says, voice strained as he hauls another crate into his arms. He gives her a pained smile as he tells her, "Then ya can go set up your tent."

Brittany takes the crate from him, knees almost buckling under the sheer weight. Burt moves to relieve her from it but she gives a shake of her head, hefting it higher in her arms and she ducks inside the armory tent. She knows quite well the strain upon Burt's face is a direct reflection of the ache his leg is giving him. It's been acting up as of late and Brittany worries for him even though Burt is adamant as he tells her otherwise.

"It's all this moving," Burt always says, waving off her concern. "My old man knees can't keep up with all you young lads."

She hopes he's right, and that it isn't something too serious. She makes note, reminding herself over and over again as she walks down her assigned lane with her haversack slung across her back to mention Burt's leg pain to Santana. She'd be sure to know what to do, if anything can be done, to make sure Burt keeps himself well and good.

And as Brittany begins to unwind the canvas material from within her sack she wonders more upon the date. How many days has it been, she thinks, since she last sent her letter home? A frown mars her features as she pulls the posts out next. She's forgotten the days, unsure now of when Emily will receive her letter let alone when a response might arrive. It's a thought that plagues her as she begins to set up her tent.

The second attempt she makes goes decidedly smoother than the first in Tompkinsville, she thinks. Though halfway through Beiste finds her struggling and in a matter of minutes constructs the entire thing herself without so much as breaking a sweat. Regardless, Brittany deems the construction a success.

It is the last success she feels she'll have for a long while down here in Hartsville, especially with thoughts of home now running rampant in her head once more.

* * *

_November 28_ _th_ _, 1862_

It's taken little more than a week for the routine of the new camp to settle in with the regiment. Many a friend has been reunited and spirits are decidedly high for what is sure to be a harsh winter.

It is a fact Santana is apt to comment upon whenever a rather strong gust of frigid air blows past. She huddles closer beside Michael on the bench their share, holding her bowl of soggy, yet blessedly warm, cornmeal up near her chin. The steam washes over her face, her once chilled skin welcoming the warmth greedily.

Michael chuckles, watching as Santana's eyes close and she lets out a delighted hum of a sound. "I don't think I've ever seen you quite so delighted by cornmeal."

"Shush," she tells him, still very much absorbed in the heat radiating from the rapidly cooling bowl. "My breakfast and I are sharing a moment."

"Share with it any more and I'm afraid you'll be needing the privacy of your cabin."

Santana keeps her hold on the bowl as she opens her eyes and stares over at Michael through an annoyed slant. "There is only one person allowed to tell such horrid jokes and the last I recall your name is not Sam Evans."

Michael nudges her shoulder, giving a shake of his head as he says, "It wasn't a joke. Consider it my medical opinion."

"Which is also horridly off," Santana says through a wry grin. "Now pass me some sugar; if I am to eat this it will need to pass as marginally edible."

He does so, chuckling as she expels a great deal more of the precious camp commodity upon her breakfast than he is sure she actually wanted to. Nevertheless Santana eats her cornmeal, cringing only a few times at the taste. After a few bites the meal turns lukewarm, her spoon prodding down into the slop as she picks around for a decent looking bite.

"Do you ever worry for her?" Michael asks as a lull settles in their conversation. Santana raises a brow at Michael, chewing slowly upon her meal. He nods his head toward Burt's tent across the way where Brittany is readying a small table and stool for herself.

"I do," Santana replies, hoping her tone conveys no more than but an ounce of the true worry she feels everyday for Brittany in this large camp.

"We've never much talked about it, you and I," Michael tells her quietly. "But she's told me why she's here. I can't lie; I find what she's done incredibly courageous. It's noble, but also stupid."

Santana bristles at the remark. "And who are you to talk?" she questions. How can Michael sit there and pass judgments upon Brittany when he sacrificed to be here as well? She's about to say as such but Michael speaks up once more.

"I can't say I wouldn't have done the same," he relents, knowing full well the heated glare she is currently burning into the side of his head is only formed from the best of intentions. He turns to her, hoping to quell the temper he does not want unleashed upon him with a soft smile as he says, "I admire her really, knowing now. It takes a brave person to do as she's done."

"She is," Santana nods, relaxing more beside him. She pushes her spoon around in her cornmeal, quieted once more.

Michael decides to press the matter further. "But you must agree it is foolish of her to think she can carry on as Bret. _Especially_ here."

Santana lets out a tired sigh. "No one has been the wiser thus far," she tells him, though even he can hear the bit of fear leaking into her voice at the statement. She cocks her head to the side, a thought suddenly striking her as she looks up at him through curiously squinted eyes. "How were you able to tell anyway?"

"Her wrists," Michael grins, sweeping his hand from within his long sleeve and turning it in very much the same way Santana has seen Brittany do on countless occasions. During countless shared waltzes. Her stomach drops. Who else could have noticed? "She dances very well as a man but her wrist flourish is admittedly feminine," he explains, oblivious to Santana's sudden horror-struck expression. His own expression is focused upon Brittany. He watches as she sits down on the stool and begins happily digging through a bag on the table before her. "And looking at her now I can't see how I could have ever thought her anything but a woman."

"People see what they want," Santana brushes his comments off, scooting a bit from him on the bench. It's a move Michael notices and feels a might upset over. He hopes to have not offended her in some way. It is something he seemed to be in constant pull with his wife, Tina, over as well. What could he have said now, he wonders. But Santana notices not his discomfort, her eyes riveted on Brittany as she tells him, "No one really pays her much attention aside from Burt." A familiar biting laugh carries down the trodden grass lane. Her gaze finds _him_ quick enough and she is even quicker to add, "And, unfortunately, _that one_."

Michael need not even ask for clarification. He follows her line of sight to the man surrounded by a small group of fellow soldiers. "I take it that is Scott Cooper," Michael says, frowning as he notices the man catching Santana's eye. Cooper hesitates, pausing mid-step.

"The horrfyingness is a wonder even from a far," Santana all but growls out.

Michael's heard his name in passing, though often more so in a string of colorful curses and damnations. He's curious as to what the man could have done to, for lack of better word, enrage Santana so. That seemed something only her father was capable of doing and thus he must inquire, "What's he done?"

Santana breaks her glare with Cooper, turning to Michael as she says heatedly, "Aside from nearly having Brittany _killed_?"

And that's all Michael need know for his own brow to lower over his eyes as he stares at the despicable man's retreating back. "How is it he's still here after pulling such a stunt?"

"Your answer is as good as mine," Santana says, hugging her arms close as a particularly unpleasant chill breeze rolls through the camp. Michael offers use of his coat but she declines. She'd left hers in the field hospital and reckons she'll be back in that stuffy tent soon enough. "No one can prove he's done a thing. Burt's tried to approach the Captain but nothing's come of it," she sighs, both bitterly objected and tired of wasting any more breath discussing the matter. "But you needn't worry about him any longer," she says, a distinctive finality to her tone. Michael also can't help but notice the smirk upon her lips as she tells him, "I've set him right."

"Dare I ask what you did?"

Santana sits up straighter upon the bench, smiling as she says, "He knows, that's all that matters."

"Shit morning to you both!" Noah greets them with a wide grin, in his hand a steaming bowl of bland cornmeal. He saddles up to Santana's side, pushing her down the bench with a solid shove of his hips.

"Puckerman!" she groans, elbowing him just below the ribs. "Learn some damn manners already."

"Aw," Noah pouts, nudging Santana gently as he slips a heaping spoonful of cornmeal into his mouth and speaks through full cheeks, "Bu' 'en who'd I gef my fu' fom?"

Santana stares at him, incredulous.

"I don't think it's too bad," Michael speaks up, leaning over the table so as to thwart what he assumes is Santana's mounting exasperation. "The morning, I mean," he clarifies when Noah raises a brow high on his forehead.

Noah swallows down his mouthful of cornmeal. Santana's once exasperated expression turns toward disgust at his display. He ignores her, leaning past her on the table to carry on the conversation with Michael. "We're in the midst of Tennessee," he says, jabbing down on the table with his index finger. "The only way this morning could be better is if there were a fine lady atop my lap."

"If you so much as _glance_ my way, Puckerman…" Santana warns gruffly.

"I ain't lookin' at you, Santana," Noah tells her, giving Michael a disbelieving look before he smiles up at the still, very much so, peeved woman. "You're right and taken."

Santana's stomach drops for the second time that day.

Michael lets out a sputter of surprised noise. His grin is wide as he sits back upright, looking down at her with delight as he says, "I didn't know you were engaged, Santana."

"Ha! Engaged!" Noah exclaims through yet another mouthful of cornmeal, dispelling some upon the table with his outburst. Santana shoots a silencing look toward him but Noah is too busy brushing the mess from the table to notice as he says, "Bret hasn't the nerve to ask her."

Santana gives Noah's shin a right hard kick and he chokes on his meal, coughing as he looks up at her, confused by the sudden abuse. On her other side Santana can feel that Michael has grown incredibly still. She fears the look she might find upon his face; _what he must be thinking!_

Her voice has grown thick, throat tight as she turns toward him. "Michael," is all she manages to utter as she meets the look of disbelief upon his features. His eyes are unfocused, staring just beyond a spot on her shoulder. She feels her skin warming beneath his gaze; the feeling radiates quickly through her entire body. _He knows_ , is all she can manage to repeat in her head, pathetic and fearful.

"I… I believe I am needed in the field hospital," he rushes out, hastily standing to his feet. He cannot meet her eyes; there is no misunderstanding what Noah has just divulged. The impossibility of it only confirmed in Santana's tone. What Michael cannot understand, though, is why. With shaky hands he brushes the nonexistent crumbs from his slacks, head turned toward the medical tent as he says, voice betraying his disillusionment, "I-I'll see to it your s-station is ready… upon your arrival."

And with that he takes off in a brisk walk straight for the tent he hopes will keep him from the disturbing thoughts of what he also now hopes is all just a cruel prank.

"What sank its grubby southern teeth into his behind?" Noah mutters aloud, watching Michael retreat.

Santana slaps him hard across the shoulder. "Have you any idea what you've just—" she halts her angry words, realizing the puzzled and exasperated expression now forming across Noah's face is very much warranted. She can still feel her heart thudding painfully against her chest, knowing she must set things right with Michael. Her mind spins a thousand lies, ways in which to assure him what he heard was nothing but a jest. She calms some as she starts to believe in those sentiments. When she nudges Noah this time, it is more demurred, her tone softened as she berates, "Learn to quiet your damned mouth, Puckerman."

Noah doesn't think he'll ever quite understand women. Especially the likes of Santana Lopez. He's sure at least a dozen some emotions and thoughts just spun through her head, all conveyed upon her face as she sat quietly beside him. But in this matter he cannot hold his tongue. "I can say whatever I _damn well_ please, Santana," he tells her hotly. " _We're_ the free ones in this land." And then softer yet, "I can't wait to get back North."

"You knew this day was coming," she tells him, inhaling deeply, hoping the cool air will calm her nerves.

"Don't mean I have to like it any less," he grumbles then jabs with his spoon over in the direction of Burt's tent. "Though Bret seems to be having a fine time adjusting to this hell."

Santana looks over, entirely unsurprised and yet charmed to find Brittany attempting to put a pair of over-sized socks on Piedmont.

"At least he's ceased with the scarves," Noah chuckles. "I really could use me some new socks though. Bet he's made you a _cozy_ pair."

Santana's cheeks flame as she exclaims, "there is _nothing_ between Bret and I!"

"There is an' frankly I'm sick of the way you two keep trying to hide it," Noah tells her, stuffing yet another heaping spoonful of cornmeal into his mouth. "There ain' nofing wrong wif gettin' some love."

Santana grabs him by the collar, pulling him close to her face as her eyes burn into his and she hisses, "listen to me, you hedonistically deluded _ass_ , speak of this matter again and I'll ensure it be that last time you ever do so."

Noah pushes her away, scoffing. "You wouldn't _dare_ touch a hair on my head. Stop actin' like such a Cooper," he grumbles, albeit his tone resigned. He looks over at her, sighing as he finds her unable to look in Bret's direction let alone calm the tremors he can see in her clenched fists. "Why is it so hard for you to just accept how you feel?" he asks her quietly.

"There's nothing to feel," is Santana's adamant response, her gaze focused upon her half-eaten meal. She can feel her heart, stomach, entire _being_ twisting as she tells him, "I am not in love with Bret Pierce."

"I ain't never said you were," Noah smirks.

"Ain't _never_ said you were?" Santana repeats, aghast. She stares up at him, heart still very much pounding against her ribs even as she tries to feign exceeding abhorrence at Noah's language butchery. "Do you even listen to yourself speak?"

"I happen to love my voice," Noah boasts, chin held high. "All the women I've ever met, aside from _you,_ find it irresistible."

Santana rolls her eyes. "Were those women perhaps also deaf?"

"Look, I don't have to sit here takin' this bullyin' from you," Noah says, once more growing concerned. "The matter is you are ashamed of being with Bret and he don't deserve it."

"For the hundredth time, _there is nothing between us_ ," Santana growls out.

Noah lets out a defeated and tired breath as he stands to his feet, collecting his meal as he does. "You keep lyin' to yourself, Santana," he tells her, voice none too accepting. He looks up over at Bret, happy to note the courier is none the wiser to the conversation that just took place. When he looks back to Santana he can see the relief upon her face as she realizes the same. It angers him, how she can act so unaware of her affections for such a good man. With bitterness even he's surprised to hear in his tone he tells her, "It's no wonder he doesn't eat with us anymore. _Fix this_."

He takes off before she can even form a reply, his steps loud and hard upon the cold ground. Santana watches him leave, wondering just how her morning came to spiral into chaos so quickly. She hasn't even the time to debate which man to chase after first when she notices Burt approaching. _Yet another man in Brittany's life I am sure to disappoint today_ , she thinks wryly to herself. Burt gives her a friendly wave as he makes his way over, the limp in his step a might more pronounced than typical. Brittany had mentioned it to her during the last few nights, requesting Santana's help on the matter. Santana thinks the cold may be cause to blame. The older man's joints obviously not faring for the better exposed to the chilled air for so long.

But it is nothing too serious, if he is still able to get around as he clearly is now.

"Good morn to you, Miss Santana," Burt smiles as he comes to stop beside the doctor. In his hands he extends a small envelope to her. "The express carrier arrived early today and I thought I'd give the poor boy a hand. I believe this is for you."

With a look of surprise upon her face she accepts the letter Burt hands to her.

"I've never received post," she whispers, eyes rooted to the small envelope in her hands.

Burt's heart goes out to the obviously astounded doctor. He can't imagine what it must be like, to have no one with which to rely upon let alone an ear to hear your thoughts. It's clear to him now that her mother must be as unfit a parent as her father. He feels the same could be said for whatever other family she has. How could she have no one to write her from home? How could no one care for her?

He can see Bret from the corner of his eye, worrying the pair of socks between his hands as he watches Santana hold so longingly to the letter. He hopes Santana realizes that even if there is only but one person writing to her now, that there are two people in this camp who would very much like to send her letters every week. It's a thought Burt knows he shares with Bret, if the boy's concern now is any indication.

"Here's to hoping you get more of these," Burt tells her softly. "And even if that don't turn out true, know there are those of us here who consider you as close to family as it gets."

She gives him a nod, swallowing hard as she clutches the letter close to her chest. Burt leaves her then, hobbling down the lane with a few other letters held in his hand.

Santana hadn't the will to turn the letter while Burt was standing close by. She was too afraid to see just whom it could be who's written her. So when Hendrick Pierce's neat penmanship meets her eyes she can't help but let out a gasp before she quickly tears the envelope open. Her stomach is a flurry of knotted fears as she shakily unfolds the letter and begins to read.

_Lima, Ohio Oct. 19th 1862  
_ _Dear Miss Santana Lopez,_

_I haven't the words to express to you my gratitude at receiving your two letters. I find myself fumbling with this pen even as I sit to write you now. Whilst the greenbacks contained therein were a most generous gift I must admit it is your words that have brought this family the greatest joy we've had since Bret's enlistment. All I can hope is that you accept the sincerest of thanks from a comforted father. I am thrilled to hear of Bret's good health, as is Emily. Please do tell him how she smiled so when I relayed your hopeful words. Also know I have taken your advice to heart and am doing all in my power to ensure Emily has the best of care._

_You truly are a kind soul, and the greatest of confidantes I could ever hope for my son to find. He is a good boy, a bit absentminded as you mentioned but well intentioned and carries the biggest of hearts. We worry for him, every minute of every day. But it is lessened now that we know he has you to trust in. Tell him we miss him so and send him all our love. We send you our love as well, and prayers to those currently in your care. You may not esteem yourself enough to carry the title upon your name but you are a doctor, Miss Santana. Do not ever doubt it. It is because of your instruction that Emily has been fairing better these past few days. This family owes you everything. I owe you everything. You've given me my world back. I cannot thank you enough and nor shall I ever stop._

_Humbly and sincerely yours,  
_ _Hendrick Pierce_

Santana does not realize the tears in her eyes until a few of them drop down to the letter held so fondly in her hands. Air rushes quickly into her lungs, the sting of the cold pricking at her throat and bringing her immediately back to the present. As she read she could vividly imagine Hendrick's voice, someone she's never heard yet knows so well already. His tender words now settle warmly in her heart as she rereads his letter for a second time. Through her tear-filled gaze she can see Brittany, still desperately trying to get Piedmont to lift a leg. One of the socks she so thoughtfully sewed for him is clenched between her teeth; another two are thrown haphazardly over her shoulders.

Santana feels her chest constrict painfully. The longer she stares, the shorter her breaths seem to come. The father of this woman feels indebted to her; indebted to the very person pushing Brittany away. Hiding her. _So that they don't hurt her_ , she tells herself. So that one day they can go home, together. To Hendrick and Emily, to a family that no doubt cares for both of them. _For her_.

Overwhelmed, Santana finds herself on a hurried path straight for Brittany. Brittany, who lets out a surprised squeal as Santana grabs her by the back of her shirt collar and tugs her inside Burt's tent. Who then then lets out another, albeit more muffled, yelp as warm lips tasting of sugary cornmeal quickly capture her own chapped ones. A hand and what feels like paper press against her cheeks as Santana kisses her with an intensity she is still trying to place. It's urgent, and certainly impassioned. But Brittany's eyes remain wide open for it is also very much day beyond the darkened interior of Burt's empty tent.

Upon the brush of Santana's hand across her jaw, as the doctor's fingers settle against the nape of her neck, Brittany's eyes finally fall close, thoughts ceasing as she melts into the kiss. She'll worry over her questions later. For now she couldn't be more thrilled by Santana's sudden boldness. Her arms find their way behind the doctor's back, resting over Santana's hips. Brittany pulls her closer, a rush of heat rolling through her veins as she feels Santana's tongue slip beside her own. A whimper escapes one, the other swallowing the sound whole, kiss growing even more frantic.

Santana moves forward, up onto her toes, arms wrapping tightly behind Brittany's neck. She is trying so desperately to convey into this moment all the feelings that coursed through her as she read Hendrick's letter. All the love she feels for Brittany; all her hopes for the promises the courier has made. Brittany's back meets the equipment wall, the clang of horseshoes and tools ringing loudly in the silent tent.

Santana breaks away, once more thrown into the reality of her rash action. She's breathless, eyes wide and dark as she stares up at Brittany. An apology is already formed upon her tongue but before she can even utter a word Brittany's eyes flutter open, a beautifully crooked smile quirking at the corner of her mouth.

"Firstly," Brittany whispers, equally breathless. Her mind is still very much a haze of all things Santana as she says softly, "A _very_ good morn to you as well, Santana." She smiles at Santana lazily as she gives her another peck before asking, "though, I am a _might_ confused as to why."

"This," Santana tells her, voice low, husky still from their kiss of moments before. She feels her cheeks warm at the sound, Brittany's eyes growing ever darker upon hearing the lowered tone of her voice. Santana holds up the now crinkled letter between them. Brittany need not even see a word upon the page. She recognizes the paper instantly.

"It's from Pa. Can I?" Brittany asks, eyes locked upon Santana's as she hesitantly reaches for the letter. Santana smiles, nodding as she allows Brittany to slip it from her hand. She waits as Brittany reads, blue eyes slowly moving across the page, sometimes backtracking, her smile widening as she absorbs the kind words of her father. When she finishes her gaze has become watery as she looks back up at Santana.

"I told you he'd love you as well, San," Brittany says, bridging the space between them to envelope Santana in a warm hug. It is an embrace Santana is more than willing to share in, hooking her chin over the taller woman's shoulder and holding her tight. "You don't have to be afraid to come home with me."

To which Santana answers, heart full and calmed, "I'm not."

It's the truth. Especially in this moment, where it is simply her and Brittany and the world beyond the tent does not exist. For once their moment ends she must return to her duties and what she fears most is what lies outside the tent, down the path inside the field hospital.

Where she is sure Michael is working diligently, his thoughts still very much wrapped around the comments Noah uttered, and his ideas about her and Brittany's relationship spinning wild.

* * *

She finds him easily enough, just as he promised, arranging for her operating station to be well and set upon her arrival.

"Hello," she greets him softly, upset when he gives her a nod but is unable to meet her eyes. She moves closer to him, mindful of the way one of the nurses watches them curiously. She turns to the woman, her air of a surgeon very much in place as she tells the nurse, "Could you please fetch a few tourniquets from the supply crates for me? Good leather, if you will."

The nurse gives a nod, heading off to complete her errand. One Santana knows will buy her a few minutes at most.

"And could I perhaps fit in a few words with you, Michael?" she asks as the man continues deftly avoiding her gaze, rearranging the tools upon her tray for the third time. She reaches for him. "Michael, please if—"

"We're to perform a hand amputation," he says, moving aside, busying himself with the sheet upon the table. "We need to be prepared."

Santana pulls him away, ignoring the stricken look upon his face as she forces him to listen. "What you heard was a farce, _nothing_ more."

"It seemed not to you when Noah first mentioned _it_ ," he tells her, tone incensed.

"I was astounded is all!" she exclaims in a hushed voice, heart racing. "You mustn't fault me for that. _Please_ don't think more on this matter," she pleads, her grip upon his arms tightening.

"I… I don't know what to think," he confesses, the anger in his tone gone, now replaced with a tired confusion. He looks up at her. Santana is upset to find his eyes so clouded with distaste and yet also muddled with worry. "Noah isn't the sharpest but the fact he believes it so _strongly_ must mean—"

"Nothing," Santana interjects. "There is _nothing_ between Britt and I aside from kinship. You must understand that," she says leaning closer as she whispers, "I just wish to look out for her. Her father worries so and thus I care for her in his stead. Noah sees what he will of that, it's understandable why he'd think otherwise."

Michael sighs finally, eyes softening, "Given the circumstances I can see Noah being misled."

Santana masks the relief coursing so strongly though her it nearly makes her faint by leaning against the table, a shaky smirk forming to her lips as she tells him, "Noah also believes he's God's given gift to women."

Michael chuckles, the sound easing away any further of Santana's fears. "I don't doubt that," he says before growing serious and laying a gentle hand to Santana's forearm. She stills in her preparations, quirking a brow as she looks up at him. "I apologize for thinking so ill of you and my actions that followed."

"Consider it forgotten," Santana tells him with a grin. She is happy for this matter to have finally been settled, and what more, for everything to have remained the same between them.

"Just imagining two women, like _that_ , it's…" he begins to say, brow furrowing as he thinks of an answer. Santana doesn't realize her fingers are digging into the sheet upon the table until she feels her nails scrape along the surface. "It's strange...depraved, almost. Don't you agree?"

All Santana can do is nod, her breath stilling as he gives her a smile and leaves to fetch their patient. Even as the nurse and Michael return and the man is placed upon the table, Santana must do everything in her power to keep her hands from shaking so.

She fears that if this is what someone she considers a close friend feels, then what of the rest of the world? What if instead of harsh words it's actions instead? Brittany doesn't see the intolerant nature in others; aside from Cooper that is, but his actions speak far louder than any of his callous words. And those are the actions of a coward, a weak human simply driven by jealously. What of those driven by hate? Those capable of truly rendering pain, _openly_?

Those of faith, who belittle women…people like her father.

 _No_ , Santana thinks as she delves into the operation. She won't let him harm Brittany, _not anyone_. She'd throw herself in front of their fires before they could even think to lay a finger upon Brittany.

But what of their friends? If Burt were to know, Noah, _Hendrick_?

She stills the saw in her hand, blood chilling in her veins. _What of those that care for_ _Brittany_ _?_

She finishes the operation far later than expected, Michael voicing a constant stream of concern her way the entirety of the procedure. She assures him all is well, excusing both him and the nurse as she washes her hands in the basin and splashes her face a few times with some fresh water.

"Santana," her father calls for her and she is torn from her thoughts, her stomach a dire mess of anxieties. Sweat prickles at her brow as he approaches her with a reproachful stare. "Why do you appear so ill?"

"Dysentery patient," she supplies quickly. "He could not contain his bowels, the smell was atrocious."

"Nevertheless," he says, brushing the explanation aside. "You are to dine with myself, the Colonel and a few others in town this evening," he explains, ignoring the stunned look upon her face as he continues. "I've had a nurse fetch a dress for you from town. Ensure you look presentable. I'll not have you _embarrass_ me tonight. Be ready by the outpost come dusk."

* * *

As her father said, a dress is waiting for her upon her arrival to the cabin later that afternoon. Santana finds it lying upon her cot, the fabric heavy as she holds it up. It's vaguely reminiscent of her gowns back home in Cincinnati, and by vaguely she means not at all. In place of her preference for silk the gown is sewn of a cheaper material, a coarse cotton blend. Despite this, the sleeves are distinctly lace. _Probably the finest thing in town_ , she thinks as she holds it up to her chest. The color she more than approves of: a deep red, almost burgundy stain has been set into the fabric.

It's still an eyesore of a garment, far too big in the hem, clearly of southern style and not the simple trim and flow of the dresses she's used to in fashion up north. Nevertheless her father has requested she don it and as she currently stands with him she'd rather not add more fire to his fury.

After squeezing herself into the dress, a feat even she was surprised to have managed given the smaller bust size of the gown, she slips on her boots once more. The dress hides the scuffs of her worn shoes and Santana thinks it could perhaps also hide a few children.

She hopes the walk to the outpost will prove quick. She'd rather no one see her looking so ridiculously dapper.

But of course her wishes go unanswered for just as she exits the cabin Noah and Brittany so happen to walk by on their way to supper. They each stop in their steps, Noah's jaw falling open as he stares toward her in wonder. Brittany though remains composed, a small smile on her lips and cheeks burning red.

"You look a fine sight tonight, Santana!" Noah hollers as she makes her way to them. Brittany's eyes immediately go to the ground. "Real pretty," he says once she's standing before them. "What's the occasion?"

"Dinner with the Colonel," Santana replies, giving a groan as she admits, "But I'd much rather stay here with you both."

"Ah, no, you can't turn down the duck roast I'm sure you'll be having tonight," Noah says and then leans closer, smiling widely as he requests, "Sneak some back for us? No, better yet, sneak back a few bottles of bourbon will you? I'm sure you could fit a whole cupboard full under that dress."

"Stealing from the Colonel, yes, I'm sure that would go over well if I were caught," she replies with a roll of her eyes.

" _If_ ," Noah winks. "But we know you _won't be_."

"I'm not pilfering liquor for you."

"Very well," Noah says with a chuckle. His grin turns warm, almost shy as he asks, "Maybe we'll see you at our fire later?"

Santana smiles, knowing now that all is forgiven between them. "I'd like that," she says softly.

He gives her another wink and nudges Brittany's arm. "How's about we go see what Beiste is cooking up tonight?"

Brittany nods, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth as she dares a glance up toward Santana. Santana holds her gaze but for a moment, the same flutter of sensations settling in her stomach as she does. Brittany is looking at her with such hesitance, with such adoration. Santana looks away quickly; Brittany feels her heart tug in her chest at the action.

"Go eat," Santana says with a forced laugh, shooing them by shoving against Noah's shoulder playfully.

"I'm not kidding about that bourbon!" Noah shouts from over his shoulder as he and Brittany make their way down the lane.

Santana shakes her head at him before making her own way toward the camp outpost.

She is surprised when she arrives to find an open air carriage waiting for her. Her father is, naturally, displeased by her tardiness. He sits along one bench and, much to Santana's lament, Scott Cooper sits opposite.

"We're to dine at an estate tonight," Dr. Lopez informs her as she climbs up and he motions for her to sit beside Cooper. The soldier deftly keeps his gaze to floor as she narrows her own into the side of his face. Dr. Lopez rolls his eyes at the display. "I've invited Private Cooper as our _guest_."

"Excuse me?" Santana says with a shake of her head. "But since when do you consider pests, guests?"

"Quiet your tongue, Santana," her father growls. "As if I would have allowed Pierce to accompany you tonight."

" _Bret_ is far more a man than the coward quivering beside me," Santana replies. "Look at him; he cannot even meet my gaze."

Cooper remains mute, squaring his shoulders somewhat even as his eyes remain rooted to the floor.

"Stop torturing the boy so," Dr. Lopez relents. "Perhaps someone better will catch your eye tonight. Your mother _insisted_ you accompany me to one of these dinners."

"And what will she know if I don't attend?" Santana questions.

"I'd rather not have to answer any of her ridiculous questions on the matter," Dr. Lopez tells her, bored as the carriage driver finally sets the horses forward in a brisk trot. "You can both discuss this upon our return to home. Whenever God grants us that reprieve."

Santana knows better than to tell him she hasn't considered it her home in months now.

* * *

The estate they eat in is beautiful, the owners very much in favor of the North and more than happy to be hosting a supper in their honor. Colonel Wright is drunk by the time they arrive, having downed a great deal of whiskey with the home's proprietor, a good friend of his from their years in the Mexican war. They sit at the head of the table, laughing boisterously and filling their stomachs with pheasant.

Cooper sits beside her at the table, cowering whenever she so much as glances his way.

Santana hasn't touched her supper; unable to eat beneath the scrutiny of her father and the lewd stares some of the men see fit to linger upon her. She wishes the nurse would have chosen a far more conservative dress, if only so as to alleviate her from their unwanted attentions. She tugs up on the sleeves, the dress barely brushing against her shoulder upon its release.

Her father leans close. " _Stop fussing_ ," he hisses from between his teeth.

She says nothing in return, spearing a few green beans with her fork and forcing them down her throat.

"And what are you thinking, Wright?" asks a man stationed across the table. Santana has forgotten his name, but recognizes his bawdy stare. The taste of beans upon her tongue grows stale. "How long will you be stationed with us here in Hartsville?"

Colonel Wright gives pause in his laughter, face red from the liquor as he mulls the question in his head. Santana watches, astounded as he seems to remove himself from his inebriated haze, eyes focusing as he says, "Through winter, at the least. I've heard inklings we may be headin' further south yet."

Santana feels the green beans wishing to rise back up her throat at the statement. Even as her father fills his plate twice over she remains, quieted and still in her seat. A glance to her side proves Cooper is in much the same mindset, his food too untouched upon his plate.

"Do eat, will you," her father tells her, plopping a roll atop her potatoes.

"I'm afraid my appetite has deserted me," Santana says then turns to him and mutters, "Perhaps because of the unfortunate company you've sat me beside."

Dr. Lopez realizes she is right; Cooper has been nothing but a simpering coward all evening. He barely answers any questions and his eyes are constantly darting toward Santana in what can only appear to be some type of anxiety.

"Well, if we move further south I've no doubt our good medical staff will ensure the men stay well and fit," Captain Hartman supplies, raising his glass of wine in toast. "Dr. Lopez, you've been exemplary. If only other surgeons were as thorough in their care as you. Wasn't it just this past week you rid poor Ewing of a ruptured spleen?"

Santana balks, fork clattering to her plate. Her father pays her no heed, a smile upon his lips as he nods, graciously accepting credit for a procedure she undertook. She cannot believe the audacity of her father to have taken credit for work she's done. What else could he have been claiming as his own? It's obvious to her now why he was ever granted the title of Major. _The undeserving, insolent-_ her thoughts grind to a halt as he gives a forced chuckle in good humor.

"It was quite a mess he made of himself," Dr. Lopez muses as he scratches at his wrist. Santana fumes silently beside him as he continues to boast of accomplishments he knows full well were of her own doing. Her nails dig into the napkin draped in her lap, jaw clenched tight as he speaks with contrived praise of the fine staff he's been afforded and even going so far as to bestow her with a small bit of approval as his _assistant_. He turns his insufferable smile toward her, laying a hand gently along the top of her bare shoulders as he says for all the table to hear, "It is merely our duty to get these boys well so they may see home again, isn't that right Santana?"

But Santana is rendered mute in the wake of her all-consuming resentment, unable to even open her mouth let alone utter one syllable. She wishes to slap his hand away, the feel of his skin upon her own is maddening. She can feel her father squeezing the muscles in her shoulder, a silent command to answer him. If she were to look up she'd find an equal expression now reflected in his dark eyes, impatient and irked.

"Santana performed the surgery upon Ewing," Cooper says after a moment. A few gasps issue forth from those present at the table, others turning stunned gazes toward Dr. Lopez. Santana's head turns sharply toward Cooper, his eyes rooted upon her hand still clenched around her napkin. His eyes flick up, locking upon her own, an expression held within them she cannot place as he says aloud, "She also ordered the expansion of the tent at Mackville. The cleanliness. Everything. She's the one you should be praising."

Silence envelopes the room.

Santana cannot sit still any longer. She pushes out from the table, offering a quick, "Excuse me," as she hastens toward the hall door.

She doesn't stop until the cold of the night air meets her lungs and her hands grip upon the railing of the veranda porch. Taking heaving breaths deep into her lungs she closes her eyes, desperate to make sense of what just unfolded inside.

"Santana?" Cooper ventures, jogging up to her. She whirls on him, her glare furiously burning into him even as he holds his hands in surrender and tells her quickly, "I just wish to apologize!"

Santana stares at him, incredulous. After a moment she lets out a groan. "Why did you?" she asks.

"Truthfully?" Cooper replies, and upon her nod he runs a hand through his hair, giving her a shaky smile before saying, "I, selfishly, thought if I set him right you would perhaps forgive any future lapses in my poor judgment and spare the hearing in my only working ear."

"There was a contingent to that threat," she supplies. "And assuring me now you plan on having further lapses in _judgment_ does nothing to retract my promises from before."

"Then does telling you I spoke up tonight _because_ of him help?" he asks her, quieted, his eyes focused upon the railing as he picks at some of the paint. With a deep exhale he looks up at her. "I'm not Bret, nor do I realize will I ever be. And as much as it pains me to admit because he's so... so _god damned_ strange, he's still a better courier, a better friend, a better _person_ than I. And don't look at me so, this is the truth and for once I am inclined to speak it. All I know is that if he were here tonight he would have said the same at that table." And with a sly, though not quite so mocking, smirk adds, "Perhaps not as eloquently, mind you."

"I may not wish to bring you harm," Santana tells him evenly. "But I still detest what you did to him."

"I don't expect your forgiveness," Cooper says softy. "Nor Bret's. I won't bother you both none anymore, Miss Santana. You've enough a _bother_ in a father."

"For once, something we both agree on," she says with a wry grin. "You should go though."

"Would you like me to walk you back?" He asks, eyes darting down to the encampment below the hill before focusing back upon Santana's once more. "Consider it my amends for being such an ass."

"You're still an ass," Santana corrects him with a roll of her eyes. "That's not soon to change."

"Such little faith in me I see. Have as pleasant an evening as you can then," he tells her with a chuckle. As he hops down the steps and makes his way out the yard he turns, giving her a wave as he hollers. "Or at the very least give him greater hell!"

Her father finds her not long after Cooper disappears over the ridge. All inklings of his earlier fury are tempered in favor of cool eyes and thick band of smoke issuing from the cigar held between his lips. "Pity about Cooper," he says, as he comes to stand beside Santana. "I'm afraid his injury is more dire than I first imagined."

Santana's brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

"You heard him, sprouting those _lies_ ," he says, shaking his head. He puckers his mouth, staring down at Santana before turning his back to the field and blowing a lungful of smoke up into the black sky. "I assured the Colonel some time spent in a facility better equipped to cure his mania would do him well."

"You've—" Santana sputters, eyes wide. "You've ordered him to be _committed_?"

Dr. Lopez smiles. "Incredible, what sway my rank affords me."

She can hear the unspoken implication upon his tone, knowing full well what he wishes her to say next. She feels not the bitter chill in the air, instead the heat now radiating throughout her as she mutters, " _What do you want_?"

"You're a competent physician, Santana," her father tells her, his tone honest, stilling. She feels her throat clench, heart pounding hard as he continues, "There is no doubt of that. I'd hoped you would have failed when I appointed you a table in Mackville. Perhaps I'd find you spending a great deal of your time crying over the stress and then you would have begged of me to send you home," he tells her. He turns toward her, eyes narrowing with curiosity. "You're not at all that woman though, are you? Nothing like your mother."

"She was never as you've made her now."

"Weak character does not an excuse make! You've stubbornly held yours despite my attempts in the contrary."

"I am not a puppet for yours, or _anyone's_ hands to manipulate!" Santana shouts at him. "Why is it so difficult for you to accept…" she chokes upon her words, casting her eyes down before turning back upon his indifferent gaze and telling him thickly, "to accept _me_?"

Dr. Lopez is struck by the sheer emotion laced within the impassioned words of his daughter. In her eyes he can see her mounting hatred for him, it burns in a gaze that so mirrors his own there are times when he feels he's staring at a softer version of himself. A young Albert, standing in defiance to his own ruthless father in much the same manner his daughter is in this moment. And just as before he can see the desire for his acceptance in those dark eyes. For the respect he's never once deemed to grant her let alone voiced his opinion in favor for.

He hadn't been lying when he'd told her she is a competent physician. She very much is, and perhaps one day, soon he laments, she'll be better versed and more accomplished than even he. _And at such an age!_ It's preposterous! He cannot wrap his mind around how quickly she's taken to everything he's thrown at her. At the patients who flourish in her care. It is her badge he wears upon his lapels. And he cannot accept that he's contributed to making her the woman she is today. Someone even the coldest of father's could find pride in, adore, and dare he think, esteem. But he will not show her the respect she deserves. Because, "I cannot accept disappointment."

"Is that what I am?" she asks, swallowing hard, eyes now brimming with unshed tears.

Dr. Lopez turns from her, gaze focused upon the polished veranda railing as he mutters, "I hear of the way you speak of me with that Chinaman—"

"His name is _Michael_ ," she growls. "He's as much an American as I. More than I can say for _you_."

"And see, here you are, yet again, speaking against me," he says with a roll of his eyes.

" _What is it you want of me_?" she shouts at him.

"Calm that Lopez temper of yours, Santana," he clicks his tongue at her. "I only desire the respect you've not seen fit to give me."

She crosses her arms over her chest. "Done."

Dr. Lopez chuckles. "I don't quite believe you. Let me elaborate," he says, taking a step closer, his once calm demeanor shifting in place of towering intimidation. "You will acquiesce to _any_ orders I see fit to delve. Hold your tongue on _all_ matters and continue your _good_ _work_ under the guise of _my_ instruction," he all but demands, eyes boring squarely into her own. A smirk curls at his lip as he tells her next, "Do this and I won't have that fool Pierce committed as well."

Santana pushes him back with a shove. "You cannot send him away! You've no proof he's done anything!"

"No, you're right. I haven't," he tells her thoughtfully, inhaling deeply from his cigar. He leans toward her once more, the smoke rolling from his tongue as he says, "But I just as easily could have him reassigned. Have you any idea how desperate the infantries in the Carolina's are for new men?"

 _He can't_ , she screams at herself, willing for his words to not dig so deeply into her heart as they've just done. But struck her they have, leaving her gaping at her father while horror pierces into her gut, nausea onsetting soon after. Brittany can't be sent away. Not to a hospital, not to an institution... not to where the war rages hottest and the fires of the destruction can bee seen for miles. Where men are sent to die upon fields of grass... where home is never a future. Santana feels as though she's drowning, unable to resurface for air let alone call for help. It is just her and her father outside. Them and nothing save for the light of the moon and the stars shining brightly in the sky. And despite all this twisting so painfully within her she can't help but think how this perfect night paints the backdrop to the stealing of her freedom.

" _This is extortion_ ," Santana hisses, a telltale waver hitching in her voice.

A waver Dr. Lopez more than picks up upon, grinning as he tells her, "I care not for your perverse infatuation with that insipid boy so call this what you will." He's pleased to note the moisture collecting in her eyes has thickened. To leave her shaken, have her full respect, no matter how it is conceived is all he desires. She's tread upon him for far too long, questioned him for the last and final time. And even as he asks his next question he anticipates she will not fail him in her reply. "Have we an agreement?"

Santana's known the answer since the moment he stepped to the porch and as she utters her pained, " _Yes_ ," her father's smile grows.

Dr. Lopez turns from her then, inspecting the tip of his cigar before flicking it out to the yard below. The embers burn for a few seconds longer as he whispers down to his daughter, "This is for your own good. Even your mother agrees."

To which Santana also only has one answer, one she doesn't hesitate over as she tells him evenly, "As of this day I have no mother." And harder yet continues, " _Or father_."

"Then be free of my name and cease with your unnecessary _melodrama_ ," Dr. Lopez groans with a wave of his hand. "Dear God, you're worse than the hookers when it comes to theatrics. At least they provide some measure of amusement."

The tears fall down her face unchecked. "You truly do not care…"

"For you?" he asks, looking down upon her. He takes in the wrinkled state of her new dress, the stains along her cheeks. Any inkling of devotion toward the woman who stands so broken before him never surfaces. He feels it never did. Adjusting his coat over his shoulders, without thinking to lend it down to his chilled daughter he says, "To be frank, the moment you acquired my name was also the very moment I wished you rid of it. My sentiments on the matter haven't swayed. At least now—Where are you going?" he asks as she begins to walk away from him.

Santana doesn't stop in her path toward the steps. "I cannot stay here. Not with you."

He rushes forward before even one of her feet can touch upon the steps. "You will continue to share my cabin," he commands, spinning her around forcefully. "I'm not to have you off fucking that Pierce idiot all night. You _will not_ sully my name despite forfeiting your right to it."

She rips her arm free, spitting out harshly, "As if you're not off to do the very same tonight."

"I've an _appointment_ ," he growls.

" _With a whore_."

Santana lets out a pained gasp as his palm strikes solidly against her cheek. The slap echoes down the yard, Santana's skin burning hot in the frigid night air. "Consider that your last and _only_ warning," he tells her. "My _time_ concerns you not. Is that clear?"

He releases her, Santana stumbling back a few steps before she's able to catch herself. Without so much as looking to him she mutters out a simple, "Yes."

"Go now," he waves her off. "See to it you get a good night's rest. There is a lot to be done come morning."

Santana bites her tongue hard to keep from lashing out at him as she wishes, instead turning toward the stairs and taking two at a time as she hurries from his presence. She can feel his eyes watching her as she moves through the yard and down the hillside. She wants to scream, wants so much to bring him pain.

Even once inside their cabin, ripping the dress from her body, she can still feel his hand along her cheek. The tears born of his disregard are still diligent in their path down her face. She sucks a ragged breath deep into her lungs as she kicks the dress to the corner of the room, hoping the sparks from the stove set it ablaze. She hopes the whole of the cabin goes with it, all her father's materials burning to ash. It would be so easy, she thinks, to start a fire whilst he sleeps. To watch him burn, surrounded by all his lies and insecurities.

As she exhales the rage coursing so dangerously within her ebbs, her body exceedingly fatigued in its wake. She allows herself to fall to her cot, wincing as a few books below her bed poke up into her stomach. Santana stuffs her hands beneath her pillow, so ready to clench the object to her face and let out the scream she's desired to all evening. But her hand brushes against something, the crinkle of paper meeting her ears. She picks herself up upon her elbows, turning her pillow over to find a small note beneath.

_Dear San,_

_I wanted to say this to you earlier, but I knew I couldn't. It was really hard to breathe when I saw you and even though that dress was ugly, you looked so beautiful. I'm so proud of you. Wherever it is you were tonight I hope everyone got to see just how smart, and good, and wonderful you are. I hope I made the commas right. You're the best teacher, so much better than my old one. I think I saw him yesterday but he had no hair so it couldn't be him. And you're far better looking too but you know that already. I love you. Please don't ever forget that._

_Yours,  
_ _B_

Santana finds her tears falling harder as she rereads the short letter. And she knows, in the deepest of her soul that she will surrender to her father's commands. Anything to ensure Brittany not be sent away.

To ensure she keep the woman she loves safe, _here_ , until they can return home, together.


	12. Tell all the truth but tell it slant

Brittany wakes early the next morning, far before the first rays of dawn light can stretch above the horizon. Not even a glimmer of the moon is visible behind the thick cover of rainclouds still hanging low in the sky. Somewhere, far in the distance, she can hear the muted rumble of thunder. _Drills will be awful today_ , she thinks, peeking her head out from her tent. It's a frigid morn, cold enough for even the softest of her breaths to cloud before her lips. Brittany amends her thought; drills will be more than awful in such inclement weather. _They will be hell_. Far worse than yesterday when at least three in their company fell to the ground, unable to carry on, lungs spent and fever setting into their blood. It's not their fault, she knows, that they succumbed so terribly fast.

There is a great deal which their hardship can be attributed to. The stress of training, the cutting of rations… the recent bout of flux leaving many wary of bathing, let alone drinking, from the river. But of all those reasons there is still a more pressing concern which cannot be overlooked.

Only half the men in the encampment had been provided with winter coats.

Brittany hopes more arrive very soon. Burt has told her the rest of the shipment is still weeks away aboard a train somewhere far north. She doesn't think she can bear to see any more men suffer through the coming winter without them. She also counts herself very lucky to have such a good friend in Noah Puckerman. He forfeited his coat to her the moment they learned Bret wasn't to acquire one until the following caravan arrived. At that point there was no knowing when, or even _if_ it would ever come. As he held the coat out to her that bitter afternoon he'd assured her he'd be just fine without. All those nights he'd spent dashing half-naked from the rooms of lonely – "yet oh so fine!" – town widows had toughened him to the cold.

She didn't quite believe him but accepted his offer graciously nonetheless.

He truly is the very best she could ever ask in a friend.

It is why she finds herself worrying for him as she laces her boots. The chill winds are sure to tear through his uniform jacket as they carry out their run today. Last night he'd assured her, for what felt the hundredth time, that he'd be fine. But she could see the way his jaw quivered as he spoke and the slight hunch of his shoulders as he kept his arms tucked close beside him. Even the warmth of their fire could do little to stave off the penetrating chill upon the night air.

She makes a note to herself to remember to give him her old jacket later, even if it is two sizes too small. Anything is better than nothing… and especially better than suffering.

Santana has enough patients flooding the field hospital these days to fret over. Brittany doesn't ever wish to see Noah among them. And as her thoughts turn toward the doctor she feels herself growing more alert, the sleep once hanging in her eyes now rubbed clear away as she stands to her feet.

Bundling herself warmly within the winter coat Brittany shakes the shivers from her arms and makes her way to the small cabin. Her sleep was fretful; dreams plagued with visions of wounded unicorns and troubled thoughts of Santana. The sole purpose for waking so early is to seek her out. Santana never joined them by their fire as she'd promised and as Brittany made her way back to her tent late last night she was surprised to find the glow of firelight pouring out through the cabin's small window.

Santana was obviously inside.

It pained her imagining just why it was she had kept to herself.

Had Santana not wanted to see her? Had her father stopped her? _Had he hurt her?_

_No_ , Brittany willed herself as she walked past. _Don't think such horrid things_.

She hoped instead Santana had found her letter and that it provided her with some measure of comfort. She'd spent a great deal of time deciding where she should leave it. Atop the pillow was too risky; Dr. Lopez was sure to find it. The nightstand was equally out of the question. Santana's books are too many in number to be sure she'd pick the right one. Brittany settled with hiding it beneath the pillow, remembering how Santana likes to sleep at times with one hand tucked beneath her head.

She _had_ to have found it.

And even if she hadn't, for Santana not to have joined them anyway, let alone slip into her tent as she was wont to do as of late, was immensely troubling. It was so unlike Santana to simply never show, especially after giving her word.

_What happened?_

Brittany is set upon answering that very question this morning.

Careful to keep her steps light as she approaches the lone cabin window Brittany leans forward, rolling up to her toes. She peeks inside; the room is dark and empty save for a lone figure sleeping soundly in the bed opposite. Brittany presses her nose against the glass pane and squints. Her eyes are slow to adjust to the darkness as she focuses upon the body. It's too large, sprawled in a way Santana's usual curled position would never allow. Faintly she can hear the telltale snores of Dr. Lopez.

Brittany pulls herself higher atop her toes, her breath fogging the glass. She swipes her hand across the window hastily, mindful to keep her lungs stilled.

And as she stares down at the neatly made bed, Santana nowhere to be found, the same worry from the night before strikes deep in her chest. _What did he do to her?_

_Where is she now?_

There is only ever one place Santana can be found at such an hour. And Brittany desperately hopes she is right as without hesitation she takes off for the field hospital.

Even at a distance Brittany can see the soft glow of a lamp as it shines against one of the tent walls. Someone is awake inside. Brittany urges herself forward faster, her eyes riveted to the light as it hovers for a moment before lowering to rest somewhere near the ground. Brittany feels a rush of relief flood through her veins at the movement.

There is no question in her mind that it is Santana holding that lamp.

Quickly and silently she ducks inside the tent flap, a smile upon her face as her suspicions are confirmed. Santana sits squatted down on the floor beside a slumbering patient, the dimmed lamp held high in her hand as the other searches beneath the man's cot. She doesn't seem to have noticed Brittany arrive, let alone that she's now making her way over. The inside of the field hospital is as dark as the night sky beyond save for a small radius of space surrounding the flickering lamp.

That is why Santana nearly drops the lamp in fright when Brittany asks her quietly, "Why are you up so early?"

" _Brittany!_ " Santana hisses out, losing her balance as her free hand digs into the hardened dirt below for support. She breathes hard, eyes flittering over the face of the sleeping patient. When he remains dreaming she feels her nerves calming. "Dios mio," Santana whispers, turning her gaze up to Brittany. The wide smile falls at the look directed up toward her. It's jarringly unforgiving, stern. "You shouldn't be in here," Santana tells her, voice hardened yet quieted so as to not wake any of the men resting soundly around them.

"You didn't come last night," Brittany whispers, aggrieved as she watches Santana bend to her knees and reach back beneath the cot. "I was worried."

"I'm fine, _clearly_ ," Santana says with far more bite than she intended. She regrets the remark the moment it leaves her mouth. Brittany isn't to blame, she knows. _And nor does she deserve your harsh tongue_ , Santana chastises herself. But she cannot help the bitterness contained in her words, not after last night. She can feel the cool metal of the bedpan beneath the cot press against the protective bandages wrapped around her fingers, a shudder rolling down her spine at the thought of its contents. Her father had charged her with ensuring each and every one was emptied and cleaned before his arrival at dawn. It is a degrading task, the first of many she is sure. And for Brittany to come find her at this hour and see her having to do such work? Wincing, and in a much gentler voice she tells Brittany, "You should go. You've drills soon."

"Not for an hour or so yet. I wanted to see you first," Brittany says softly, crouching down beside the doctor. And even though Santana refuses to meet her eyes she asks anyway, "Did you get my letter?"

Santana stills, struck by the absolute anxiety laced in Brittany's voice. Brittany is never uneasy. Not like this. She chances a glance toward the troubled woman and again finds herself rendered mute, this time by the sheer concern held within the blue eyes before her. Brittany scoots forward, wetting her lips as she reaches out and touches Santana's upper arm. It's but a simple brush of her fingers against the sleeve of Santana's coat and yet through the thick layer Santana swears she can feel the skin of her arm warm, pulse quickening beneath the tender touch.

Brittany moves closer, Santana's eyes falling closed as she lets out a shaky breath. Brittany slides her hand down Santana's sleeve, pulling her arm out from beneath the cot. She's mindful not to let her fingers move past Santana's wrist. The once sterile white bandages around Santana's hand are splattered with filth and Brittany's learned by now how easy it is for disease to spread. Instead she scratches lightly at the back of a dry wrist, hoping for those dark eyes to open once more. She can see each individual eyelash brushing against Santana's cheek and wishes to bridge the small gap separating them to press a kiss against the knotted brow. But she knows her place, knows this is not where such affections should be shown. Instead she holds loosely to Santana's wrist, ignoring the stench of the diseased lingering about them, and asks her softly, "What happened, San?"

"I'd rather not recall," is the muttered reply that meets her ears. Before Brittany can even think a response Santana looks up, eyes locking upon her own. There's something off in her gaze, a grave sadness usually not evident in the brown eyes. And there, just as the light catches it so, is a hint of bruising high upon her cheek. Santana can see Brittany's gaze darkening as her eyes focus upon the damage. She turns away sharply; lamp lowered quickly, her face once more shrouded in shadow. "Please go."

But Brittany is unwilling to leave and reaches forward to pull Santana back toward her when the doctor tries to resume her work. " _Did he hurt you_?" Brittany asks, her voice impossibly low. A growl almost, Santana thinks, pursing her lips as she keeps her head deftly turned away.

"I told you _I'm fine_ ," she tells her, shaking Brittany's hand off and standing quickly to her feet. Brittany shoots up beside her. " _Go_."

"He did, _didn't he_?" Brittany implores and this time the snarl is more than evident. Santana's never heard Brittany speak in such a way let alone ever heard a demand leave her tongue. Brittany is never inclined to anger, annoyance surely, but never outright fury. It unsettles something within Santana, goose bumps rising along her covered arms.

She is quick to push the warm feeling down, brushing Brittany's concern aside as easily as she shrugs the firm hand from her arm. "I spoke out of place. What's done is done."

"That's not right!"

"Shhh!" Santana hisses, eyes narrowing up into Brittany's own. "I can't have you waking my patients. _Just go, Bret."_

She can see something flash in Brittany's blue eyes, her teeth clench tightly, pale skin growing taught along her jaw. " _Fine_ ," Brittany forces out. "I'll leave. But I am coming back."

_No!_ Santana's eyes widen, panic gripping at her heart. _If_ he _were to catch her here_ … Santana whirls upon her heels, Brittany already making headway toward the tent entrance. She spurs herself forward quickly catching up to Brittany before the rightfully angered woman can make it out of the tent. "You _can't_ come back in here."

Brittany holds the flap of the tent open as she turns back to Santana. "I'm not scared of your Pa no more," she answers evenly.

Santana wants to reach out, grab Brittany and make her see reason but she cannot touch her. Not with the excrements of her patients so prevalent on the wraps of her only free hand. And even then she wishes not for Brittany to see the way her hand trembles so. Santana curls her fingers deep into her palm and keeps the dirty mess placed behind her back, the lamp still held high near her chest in her other. The oil inside wanes, the flame flickering in the last of its fuel. Brittany's hardened features glow sharp in the dying light. Her eyes shine down at Santana, the deep blue probing, angered and... _disappointed_ , Santana laments. She can see the truth to Brittany's last words, right there, clear as the light of the flame and burning straight through her all the same.

_This_ woman isn't at all scared of her father, not anymore.

Santana feels a swell of pride in her at the notion but she knows it's a foolish sentiment. She wishes more than anything for Brittany to still retain her terror for her father. She'd keep away then, she'd stay hidden… _safe_. It's for this reason that when Santana is finally able to find her voice that all she's able to whisper out thickly is a meek, " _I am_."

It is the truth. One Brittany can now place in the expression held within wide dark eyes. Frightened eyes. Brittany can feel the heat of her anger waning, the scowl upon her face dropping as she moves closer to Santana, wishing to take the pain from the woman standing so terrified before her.

"You've no idea…" Santana begins to say softly, eyes darting over her shoulders to ensure they're not heard. She looks back up at Brittany, the lamp extinguishing with a soft hiss as she lets out a ragged breath. "Please, just—" her words still then upon the feel of Brittany lightly running her fingertips over the bruise on her cheek. Santana sighs, eyes falling closed at the touch. "I'll tell you tonight," she whispers, gaze pleading as she stares back up at Brittany once more. "Just _go_ now."

"Promise?" Brittany asks, pulling her hand away.

"I promise," Santana tells her, managing a small, albeit distressed smile. It grows sincere though, warm as she says, "And I did find your letter, thank you."

Brittany returns the grin. "I meant every word," she says with conviction and Santana swears her heart skips several beats at the blonde's tone. Brittany's brow furrows, expression turning sheepish as she admits, "But I really can't remember what I wrote."

"That's okay, Britt," Santana chuckles, the sound drawing but a fraction of unease away. "I just didn't want you to leave without knowing. It was the only good thing about my night."

Brittany grows serious once more. "You'll tell me why later, right?"

And Santana nods, for she cannot will the words to carry forth. Not when she knows they are a lie.

* * *

Santana is finishing her small bowl of cornmeal when Michael arrives to the field hospital. It's just a little after dawn, the wind picking up speed. Some loose strands of her hair whip into her face as she looks up toward Michael. The usual relaxed smile upon his face is wiped clear away in favor of thinned lips and a heavy set brow. He glances upward; a hallowed, almost haunted, look greeting her this chilly morn. Santana finds herself growing colder beneath his gaze, pushing her bowl aside as she stands to meet him.

"Michael," she begins to say, brushing the hair from her eyes aside. She holds any further words as she catches glimpse of Dr. Lopez approaching from just over Michael's shoulder. Michael turns at her silence, following her eyes until they land upon the detestable man. His scowl only deepens as Dr. Lopez comes to stand beside him, entirely ignoring his presence as he address Santana solely.

"I take it the bedpans have all been washed?" he inquires, too busy adjusting the cuff links of his surgeon coat to meet her gaze.

Santana's teeth grind as she replies in as respectful a tone as she can muster, "Yes, sir."

Dr. Lopez nods curtly, scratching at his wrist. "And the men?" he asks, finally sparing her a glance. "Have you seen to their soiled garments?"

Santana pales. It was the one task she'd not completed. "They sleep still," she tells him. "I will attend them once they wake."

A thick eyebrow rises high atop Dr. Lopez's forehead. "They're waking _now_."

"I'm sorry, Dr. Lopez," Michael interjects finally. He wears a grin upon his face but it is neither apologetic nor cordial. "But that measure of care is typically a task assigned to the men on staff."

"And it is now a chore for _her_ hands instead," Dr. Lopez says, pointed as he narrows his eyes up into Michael's unwavering glare. It seems the Chinaman is suffering a streak of stubbornness in the wake of his daughter's subdued nature. _Nevertheless annoying_ , Dr. Lopez thinks with a click of his tongue up at the man. He motions lazily toward the tent. "Go make use of your time elsewhere. I'm sure there are linens in need of _de_ soiling."

Michael squares his shoulders against the sting of Dr. Lopez's words. Santana notices his chest rising and falling faster.

" _Michael_ ," she whispers in warning. He instantly lets out a deep breath, begrudgingly relaxing in posture beside her. Santana looks up at her father once more, masking her fury at the amusement upon his face as she asks, "Do you require anything else of me this morning?"

Dr. Lopez thinks upon her question for a moment and Santana is surprised to find his expression turn thoughtful as he turns to her once more and asks, "How many more perished in the night?"

"Seven," Santana answers with a sigh. "All dysentery."

Dr. Lopez gives a nod, turning back toward the tent. "I'll see to it Major Keller is informed," he says and without another word disappears beneath the flap.

"Santana…" Michael says after the tent settles and the muffled sounds of the waking patients filter out toward them once more. Santana looks up at Michael, his astonished and befuddled gaze still directed at the last spot Dr. Lopez stood before departing. Gaping at the tent flap he asks, " _What_ just happened?" He turns back to her, the confusion in his eyes quick to change to alarm. Especially as his gaze lingers upon the dark yellowing of the skin beneath her left eye. "Are you all right?"

"It's nothing, don't concern yourself," she swats away his hand before it can even come near her face. She ignores the wounded look he throws her way, instead choosing to tell him, "Just stay far from him today, okay? It seems not even the whore he visited last night could unsour his mood."

She cannot, though, ignore Michael's next words. "I don't think that's where he was. I saw him last night in the church up near town."

_This_ is certainly news to her ears.

Santana grabs hold of Michael's arm, quickly pulling the surprised man aside. Once she's sure her father's ears won't hear word of their exchange she asks in quick succession, "What? Are you positive? _When?"_

"A little before midnight I'd gather?" Michael says with an unsure shrug. Again that despondent expression flares in his eyes as he explains, "He was sitting in a pew and it seemed to me he'd been there for a quite a while."

_Strange_ , Santana thinks. She knows her father is a religious man but to be devout enough to seek faith at such an hour? Even he isn't that proud a Christian. Which begged the question then, "Why were _you_ there?"

Michael lets out a snort. "You know better than anyone the prejudices held against my kind. I'd never be allowed in there during day hours, let alone be given the peace to pray if I were to be seen. I needed my prayers heard, Santana," he tells her, voice growing ever more pained as he speaks on. Santana can see the beginnings of tears forming in the corners of his eyes. He closes them tightly, whispering brokenly, "Tina, she… we-we've lost the child."

Santana swallows thickly, unsure just how to respond to such an admission. "Michael, I'm... I'm so sorry."

"I only wish I could be there for her," he confesses, quickly wiping the tears from his eyes before they can touch upon his cheeks. He gives Santana a wobbly smile as he tells her, "She was to be our first girl."

Santana reaches up, patting his arm in what she hopes is a friendly manner but in reality is simply awkward. "I'd understand if you wish not to be here today."

"And leave you to face the wrath of your father alone?" he asks her with far more strength in his tone. " _Never_."

Santana can't imagine what it must be like, to lose something so precious that unexpectedly. She knows the child had brought the family hope since Michael's enlistment. That baby was their one shinning beacon of happiness in their otherwise unfortunate circumstances. And now to have lost that, let alone the despair Michael must feel never having had the chance to see his daughter's face… to hold his wife close afterward as she cried….

She hugs him then, wrapping him tightly in her arms. The sudden embrace surprises Michael. Frozen in place, he remains still as Santana whispers needless apologies against his chest. After a moment though he finds a strange sense of peace in her desperate hold. Breathing deeply, he brings his own arms around her and holds her close. They aren't the arms he wishes were surrounding him, but they are strong nonetheless, earnest and full of the best of intentions. Intentions he knows belong to the warmest of hearts. She'd never admit to it, he knows, but this is the closest he thinks he'll ever get to having her acknowledge she cares for him. And he accepts it, whole-heartedly, more than grateful.

She's a good person, and an ever better friend, he thinks with a small smile. And he only wishes she believed the same in herself.

"Sorry," Santana says, sniffling as they part. She brushes the wet spot stained now against the lapels of his medic coat. "I don't know why… I just…"

"Giving me a hug is hardly cause for such a poor apology," he chuckles. And softer adds, "or such embarrassment."

"I'm not ashamed," Santana challenges, huffily crossing her arms over her chest. She motions toward him with a flick of her wrist. "I just don't go about… _doing that_ and acting like this very often is all."

"Being a _human being_ is nothing to be so shamed over," he smiles.

Santana rolls her eyes, laughing as she tells him, "you sound like Brittany."

"And despite what everyone thinks of her she's clearly a clever girl."

Santana finds herself smiling right along with him, ever so proud of the woman she's fallen for. She notices Michael's grin doesn't quite reach his eyes, nor does she think any will for quite some time. There is still a pain in his expression, one she knows he will carry with him in the coming months. But in this moment she swears to ensure he never feel the burden of such a loss alone. He has a friend in her, perhaps not the best and certainly not the most inclined to goodness, but a friend nonetheless.

And if he needs a hug she'll see to it she gives him the very best she can.

Brittany did teach her well, after all.

With a shake of her head she nods toward the tent, a silent question of whether they should carry on with their chores delivered in the gesture. Michel shrugs, sweeping his arm out for her to lead the way. They fall into step beside one another but before they can pass through the flap of the tent Santana pauses with her hand against the canvas entrance.

There is one other matter still scratching against her mind.

"Michael?" She asks as she turns to face him. "What was my father doing there last night?"

Michael can't help but chuckle at the question. "What else does one do in a church?" he snickers. "He was _praying_."

* * *

Brittany still doesn't know quite what to make of her conversation with Santana. Even now, a few hours later, as she runs with her company through the hillsides for their morning drills. The path is second nature to her by now, steps almost rehearsed as she pushes on through the trodden fields a few paces behind the taller soldier ahead. There's a thin layer of frost in the grass, causing many of the men to slip as they run. Brittany holds steady though, accustomed to such terrain. It was fairly common to wake some winter mornings to a layer of frost coating their farm back in Lima. Chores on those mornings were never so much fun, not when Apple would put up a protest at having to be led to an icy pasture.

Sometimes he could be a might stubborn handful.

A stubbornness she found much the same in the protests Santana put up today as Brittany tried to understand what happened between her and Dr. Lopez. Whatever it is left quite the mark upon Santana's cheek, the sight of which immediately sent Brittany's blood to boil. Even thinking of it now makes her steps fall upon the ground with more force, the chilled skin of her face heating with unchecked ire. She's never hated anymore in her life, not in the way she hates Santana's father. He hurt her, _again_. And what more, he's left Santana so shaken so as to not even voice her opinion in disdain, as she was always quick to do.

It pained Brittany to see Santana acting so... so fretful this morning. Santana never wavers once she's beneath the roof in the field hospital. That is where she excels, deftly tending to patients. Medicine is her element. He hasn't been able to take her skill away. Not her pride.

Something he's said to her has changed that… and as Brittany thinks more on it she worries for what he could have done to mar her so.

As her mind spins imaginative thoughts of Dr. Lopez's demise, a soldier a few men ahead of her in line finds his feet slipping out from beneath him. He collides to the ground with a hard thud, moaning loudly. Brittany comes to a stop beside him, about to extend her hand down when the face of the man turns up toward her. She has to resist the urge to let out a groan herself upon realizing it is none other than Scott Cooper sprawled on the ground below.

Nevertheless she extends her hand anyway, very much expecting him to bat it away as he typically does. She is more than surprised then when she feels his frigid fingers wrap about her wrist, gripping tight.

The surprise is evident on her face as she stares down at him, astonished.

"My ass is getting frostbite down here, Pierce," Cooper says after a moment. Brittany snaps from her stupor, quickly hauling Cooper to his feet. He winces as a few bones in his back crack at the sudden jerk. Once upon his feet he gives his legs a good shake, trying to dispel as must frost from his slacks as possible. Brittany is still staring at him in wonder as he quirks a brow her way. "I've not grown another head, stop gawking."

"I…" Brittany croaks.

Cooper rolls his eyes. "Many thanks for the hand but do try not thinking too hard on it." And with a smirk adds, "You already look as if you're reaching your deplorable mental capacity."

With a tip of his cap he falls back into an open place in the line, leaving Brittany still gapping after him.

"Come on, Bret!" Noah claps her over the shoulder as he runs past. Brittany snaps to, legs in motion in an instant as she rushes to catch up. She breezes past Noah, giving the wheezing man a quick smile in thanks. She catches up to Cooper quickly, squeezing herself into line beside him. A thousand and one questions seem to be screaming inside her head, not one able to coherently form. So when she asks him, "Why are you nice being so human at me now?" what she really means to say is, _Why the sudden change?_

Cooper glances at her from the corner of his eyes, his top lip curling in confusion and aversion. "Care to try that again, Bret?"

_Bret_ , Brittany repeats in her head, stunned. _He never calls me Bret._ Between Santana's newfound fear of her father and Cooper's sudden humanity Brittany thinks perhaps she's woken to a reality that isn't quite existent. _I must be dreaming_ , she thinks. _This is all just a fantasy_. She wills for something spectacular to appear, a rainbow in only shades of yellow and green, Apple in his grey socks, Emily healthy and well… _anything_ to prove she's still only within her mind.

But the cold of the air is very real as it bites against her skin, the strain in her muscles burning ever so acutely within her legs.

There is no mistaking that this is reality.

_What has happened to it then?_ Brittany wonders. She focuses upon where she is now and what she wishes to ask the strangely behaving man beside her. Keeping her pace beside Cooper, she asks, "Why are you being so… pleasant with me?"

"If you ask me another such idiotic question I'll be more than happy to be otherwise again," he sneers. Brittany presses her lips tightly together, breathing hard through her nose as she wills herself not to press her luck further. After a few moments though she must release her lips, inhaling deeply through her nose once more and exhaling from her mouth. Cooper spares her another glance, curious why Bret hasn't dropped back to his place in line yet. Only one such answer comes to mind, and thus he must inquire, "She told you, hasn't she?"

"Who?" Brittany asks.

" _Santana_ ," Cooper supplies with another sweeping roll of his eyes. "What other _she_ is there?"

To which Brittany replies instantly, "Beiste."

"Do you remember… what I said?" Cooper asks, breathing harder as they jog up yet another hill. "About _stupid…_ questions?"

"Idiotic ones, yes," Brittany tells him, her breathing far more controlled. "You never said nothing about stupid ones."

"Did Santana… tell you anything… _or not_?" he wheezes with a snap.

"About what?"

Cooper groans, growing exasperated with every passing second. He regrets ever accepting her help. "About the spectacle… I made of myself… at dinner."

Brittany sucks in a sharp breath. "You were invited?"

As the terrain flattens once more Cooper's breaths even. "Wish I'd never been."

Brittany cringes. "Did you use the wrong spoon?"

"What?" Cooper balks, staring incredulously at her. He shakes his head "No. And spoons, really?" Beneath his breath he mutters, "What does she see in you?"

"More than she sees in _you_ ," Brittany says, knowing full well whom he's speaking of. And she doesn't much appreciate the condescending tone of his winded voice.

"She made that clear as a bell," Cooper grumbles.

"Clear as _rain_ ," Brittany corrects him. "Bells are too thick."

Cooper looks over toward her again, top lip once more curled in detest. "I'm going to withhold what I wish to say because I very much value what little hearing I have left. Do know I still find you an absolute idiot."

"And you're still a horrible person," Brittany tells him before stepping from the line to join the far better company of her friend near the rear.

It's not long till the group arrives back at the camp, thoroughly exhausted, chilled and more than ready to partake in a late morning nap. Brittany watches some of the men shuffle off toward their tents, their chores for the day to be put on obvious hold in favor of the rest their bodies crave. Even Captain Hartman seems plagued with fatigue this morning, his shoulders hanging almost loosely from his frame, eyelids heavy over equally tired eyes. As he dismounts from his horse he stifles a yawn into the crook of his arm. Brittany thinks he could do with a nap as well.

They all could, really.

She knows there's a lot that they are being deprived of and more yet she can't even begin to understand. She's tried to, really, but there are just some things that will forever be beyond her grasp. She's lost track of the times Santana has made mention of the slew of wrongs in need of being righted in this camp. Most of them were spoken far too fast and full of words she's never heard uttered before. Important, smart words to be sure. Brittany was lost in Santana's voice as she spoke on, merely nodding along, pleased and relieved whenever Santana would stop for a while. She knows Santana sometimes just needs someone to listen, and even though she can't identify with anything, Brittany knows she will always try. Brittany cares for Santana's every long-winded thought and relishes in the fact she is only ever so open with her. Not even Michael is privy to those unfiltered views, all his questions in the like answered with a terse response.

"There is a great deal we need," Santana always tells him. "But unlikely we'll ever receive so don't bother wasting your breath over it."

Brittany smiles to herself whenever she hears Santana tell him. Knowing she is needed, even in that smallest of ways, makes her feel entirely dear to Santana. She knows it's petty of her to feel this way, but in those instances when Santana and Michael lapse into their own discussion and the dredges of inadequacy nibble upon the fragments of Brittany's mind. She sits in silence beside the doctors and reminds herself that even despite all her shortcomings Santana has chosen her. And it makes Brittany feel so warm inside, elated, for despite how unequal they are as a pair in terms of intellectual regards, they more than matched in all else.

And all else is all that matters to her.

Yet at the moment what matters most are the needs of the exhausted men. And while Brittany agrees that they do need more of… more of those _things_ Santana mentioned, proper medicine being the only she can recall distinctly, they also need the essentials.

The basics, the simplest of human necessities she more than feels the loss of. There are three seemingly uncomplicated things that over the past few weeks have become so troublesome to acquire. She can't recall the last time she got a full, let alone good, night's rest. Nor the last time her belly was full. And though she appreciates Noah lending her his coat, there are still others in need of warm clothes.

It tires her just trying to think of a solution to one of these problems, let alone all of them.

_Maybe if they bring crickets in it might help us sleep_ , she ponders as she shakes out her sore legs. _And then Lucy could have a good meal too._

She wipes at the line of sweat that's collected beneath her cap. Her skin feels warm, body hot encased in the thick layer of her winter coat. Her heart has yet to cease its fast rhythm, her legs aching from the long run.

"Keep bouncing around up there and the Captain might think you ready for afternoon drills," Noah chuckles from his position collapsed on his behind in the grass beside her. His legs stretch out before him, hands resting solidly as support in the dirt behind his back. He pats the patch of grass beside him. "Come on, help me get these jitters out my legs."

Brittany plops down beside him with a nod, pushing up the excess sleeves of her coat until her hands meet the cool air. Noah slides his left leg toward her, allowing his body to fall back to ground with a soft thud. He lets out a contented hum, watching the storm clouds collect overhead as she kneads her fingers into the tender muscle of his calf.

"Better?" she asks, smirking, because she knows the noise he's just made is all the response she truly needs.

"The hands of God, Bret," he tells her, as he always does when she lessens the pull of his aching muscles so. "Hands. Of. God."

"So you say," she chuckles, ever mindful to keep her voice low. The quiet of the morning surrounds them, Noah occasionally humming along to a tune only he can seem to hear. As Brittany finishes up loosening the muscles of his other calf Noah sits up, propped along his elbows.

"How are things with you?" he asks, a curious sort of expression upon his face.

Brittany sits back atop her heels, shrugging as she replies, "All right."

"I was thinkin'," he begins to say, pushing himself up until his spine rests hunched, hands picking at the grass stains along his knees. "Some of the fellas are heading into town this evening, you know, to see what they can find."

Brittany stares at him blankly. "Did someone lose something?"

Noah rolls his eyes, shoving Bret's shoulder in jest. "Women, Bret. To find some fine women!" he bellows, a few passing soldiers holler in agreement. Noah grins up at them before turning back toward Bret and asking, "Would you like to come?"

"Oh," Brittany says, cheeks tinged with blush. "No, thank you. I'll just stay here."

Noah had expected such a response. It was predictable really, he thinks, given the way Bret cares for _her_. His carefree smile falls, eyes once shinning with cheer fill instead with concern. Concern Brittany finds herself confused to be met with. Noah leans closer and in a hushed voice asks, "Don't you think it's high time you looked elsewhere?"

Brittany doesn't need clarification, she more than understands whom he's speaking of. "I haven't lost Santana," she tells him.

Noah lets out a sigh. "But she treats you so poor Bret!"

"She treats me just fine," Brittany replies hotly before quickly adding. "Though we're friends, is all."

Noah's gaze narrows skeptically into her own. "Has she told you to say so?"

"She…" Brittany trails off, pursing her lips to keep any further lapses in her feelings from issuing forth. After a moment she settles upon telling him, "No, she hasn't. It's the truth."

Noah groans loudly. "I cannot believe you two!" He exclaims. "You're like teats on a boar pig!"

"That's impossible, Noah," Brittany tells him with utmost seriousness. "Teats are only on lady pigs."

He throws his arms skyward. "Exactly! Useless otherwise!" he says, hoping to whatever God above that Bret is suddenly struck with reason. He cares for Bret and Santana both. Those two have been his anchors since… since his life seemed to crumble before his very eyes in Mackville. Every night spent in their company by the fire reminds him he's not alone. That even though he's lost a dear friend, a brother almost, life carries on… the hurt lessens. It's why he hasn't given up hope in this war yet. Nor in what he knows has formed between his two friends. Watching the way Bret tries so hard not to melt at the sound of Santana's voice, even after the hundredth time of hearing that same damn song. If that isn't someone smitten in love Noah doesn't know what it ever could be.

He's been their biggest advocate; hell their _only_ advocate, he thinks, ever since Finn's death and Sam's departure. He's alone amongst the ranks of the infantry without them. The only ounce of compassion ever showed to him since has been from the man sitting beside him now. And he'll be damned if Bret isn't shown the same respect by Santana.

"You know what I reckon?" he says finally, voice no longer tinged with resentment but instead mirth. "I think you both just need to be thrown into a tent and left alone. That'd set things right. You'd thank me after of course. Your cock probably hasn't seen a woman in ages."

Brittany remains tight lipped.

Noah's once amused gaze grows mystified by her silence. It takes him a moment but when the blush now burning brightly upon Bret's cheeks registers in his mind, Noah can do little more than sputter aghast as he exclaims, "Bret! I can't believe you! When was the last time?"

Brittany shrinks within her winter coat, hoping the heavy fabric simply swallows her whole. "Not… quite… ever?"

Noah blinks at her, agape. "You've never… Bret! Is this a bluff, or do you mean it for real play?"

"I've not," is the meek response.

"Well…" Noah trails off, leaning back along his arms once more. "This certainly explains a lot," he chuckles.

"Explains what?" Brittany asks, worried for the look she cannot place now upon his face. He can't have figured her out already. "I'm a perfectly normal man with a perfectly normal cock. I've a bulge and everything in my slacks, see?"

"Stop pointing at it so!" Noah hisses, swatting her arm aside. "I'm not questioning your manhood, Bret. I'm sure it works just fine. What I mean to say is do you know what to _do_ with yourself?"

Brittany gives what she believes is a confident nod and just to be sure adds an extra confident, "Yes."

"I could nail that lie to a table, that's how obvious it is."

"I have an… older sister so I _know_ what goes where," Brittany explains. She rolls her eyes at him, as if she hasn't figured _that_ bit out by now.

"Dear God, Bret!" Noah gasps, appalled.

Sometimes Brittany feels her mouth doesn't exactly speak what's upon her mind. Blushing furiously she amends, "I didn't mean it like that! I've just… asked questions is all."

Noah lets out an audible breath in relief; his hands release their strident grip upon the grass. "You darn near killed me there, you know."

Brittany turns her gaze to the ground and mumbles sheepishly, "Sorry."

"So your sister explained things to you?" Noah asks, nudging her shoulder once more until she's looking back down at him. He smiles kindly at her, "That's mighty nice of her."

_It would be_ , Brittany thinks, _if it weren't a heaping lie_. She so wishes to just tell him the truth. It would be so much easier if he knew. Michael already does and it would just make things better, equal actually, if Noah were to as well. Symmetry is always nice and you could never have a proper dance with only three. Her mouth begins to feel dry though as her thoughts play on. _It wouldn't hurt no one_ , she tells herself. _He's your friend_.

_I promised Santana I'd never tell…_

_He deserves the truth._

She licks her lips and speaks to him for once in her natural voice. "Actually…I-" but stops herself, throat tightening as she realizes there would be no taking back her words. What she speaks next will change everything. Nervously she ventures on, "Noah? If I tell you something, about me, will you keep it secret?"

Noah finds the change in Bret's voice stilling, the man obviously torn over whatever it is he wishes to say. It is always a bit humiliating for a man's pitch to change so suddenly in conversation. He remembers the same happening to him upon _rare_ occasions as a much younger lad. Thus he does what he feels any good friend would, he pats Bret upon the shoulder, an encouraging smile upon his lips as he tells him, "Of course. We're good friends and all. Brothers I'd say, just like Sam and… and Finn." _God, it's still so hard to say his name,_ he thinks, giving a roll of his shoulder to alleviate the pressure suddenly consuming his chest at the thought of his fallen friend.

"Really?" Brittany asks, hope once more filling her heart.

"Yeah, really," Noah replies.

Brittany relaxes some at his tone, sharing a soft smile as well as she admits quietly, "I've been wanting to tell someone else for a long while and," she pauses, swallowing thickly, heart pounding once more. She can feel her fingers digging deep into her thighs, face growing impossibly warm. She wants very much to tell him. "It just gets so hard to keep …to keep _lying_ all the time."

Noah places a soothing hand atop her shoulder, his brow knotted with concern as Brittany bites her bottom lip in reaction. "Are you all right, Bret?"

Brittany closes her eyes. "My name's not Bret."

"Oh…" Noah says, not quite knowing what to make of that response. He cringes as a thought strikes him. "It's not something frilly is it? Like my cousin Bessie? Poor lad will never get a woman with a name like that."

Brittany feels a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth at his words. It's enough to give her the courage to meet his gaze as she tells him, very much herself, "My name's Brittany."

Noah claps her over the shoulder with a loud laugh. "Better than Bessie though, right?"

"I'm a _lady_ , Noah," Brittany clarifies, fingering at the brim of her cap. She debates taking him aside and removing it entirely but holds fast, gaze flittering over the soldiers milling about nearby. She lowers her hand back to her lap, afraid to meet the eyes she knows are staring in stunned silence at her.

"Wha…?" Noah manages to breathe out. "Bret, you… all this time?"

Brittany nods, toying with the ends of her winter coat. "Brittany, please," she says quietly. "And yes, all this time."

Noah sits up, crossing his legs in front of him as he reaches out and stills Brittany's fidgeting hands. Her head snaps up, wide eyes locking upon Noah's own. "How come you never said nothing?" he asks her gently.

Brittany sucks in a large breath, feeling lightheaded at the reassurance held within Noah's eyes. And even though his hands are calloused, nowhere near the soft feel of Santana's, his touch is gentle. Reassuring. "I needed to keep safe, if the captain knew I'd—" she chokes upon her words, tears brimming in her eyes.

Noah squeezes her hand. "You'd be in a _hell_ of a lot of hot water."

"You won't say anything, will you?" Brittany asks in a rush, heart racing faster than it does even as she runs through the hillside. _He's my friend_ , she repeats like a mantra in her head. _He's my friend, he won't hurt me._

Noah smiles sadly at her. "Why'd you tell me?"

"Because you're my _friend_ ," her answer comes naturally, voice strained with unbridled anxiety. "I didn't want to lie to you anymore."

Noah doesn't quite know what to make of her response. He feels as though he's still speaking with Bret, albeit a much more soft spoken Bret, but Bret nonetheless. This had to be a ruse; just a silly prank the boy wishes to pull over on him. But Noah also knows Bret… or Brittany rather, isn't one for such hurtful games. Bret doesn't lie… Noah only wishes to understand.

He knows what pains withholding this truth must have brought to the woman sitting so anxious before him. He can hear it plainly upon the quiver in her voice. And if what she speaks is the truth, then he will do her the decency of listening. If anything he owes Bret at least that.

"Bre…Brittany," he catches himself, giving an apologetic grin before growing serious once more and asking, "why would you ever want to be here?"

"You know my sister, Emily?" she asks him and upon his nod she continues, "She's very sick. San says she has consumption but I didn't know back then. I just knew when Pa got his letter that he'd leave us and I'd be left to care for her."

Tears fall in a thin stream down from her eyes, right over cheeks Noah feels as though he's seeing for the first time. They're fair, far fairer than any he's ever seen upon a man. The tinge of red within them now is becoming as can only ever be upon a woman. Their eyes meet, Brittany's tear-stained gaze holding his own with such raw emotion he must bite at his cheek to remind himself this is real. And as the taste of blood washes over his tongue he knows this is very much his waking world.

It is why he rubs his thumb atop her hand, hoping to soothe the hurt look within her gaze. Brittany wipes at her nose and he can't help but notice she does so the same way as Bret. _Brittany is no different from him._ Not at all, he thinks with a small smile. "Go on Brittany," he tells her softly, knowing she's not quite finished with her tale.

She nods, sniffling as she tells him, "Emily would have died if I stayed, Noah, I know it. I'm not smart like my Pa, or San or _anyone_. I wouldn't have known what to do…so I took his place here."

"I'm sorry I have no handkerchief to offer you right now," Noah says.

Brittany blinks, regaining her composure as she stares at him, confusion creasing her brow. "You're not… upset with me?"

Noah releases her hands, nudging her shoulder with his own as he asks, "Why would I be?"

Brittany is still surprised by his acceptance and thus finds herself saying, "For lying, for being… who I am."

"You're not the only woman in this army," he tells her, looking out past the tents surrounding them. "And you know better than _anyone_ there must be others out there like you."

Brittany perks, leaning closer as she whispers, "Have you met some?"

"You're the first," Noah says with a shake of his head. And with a chuckle she's elated to hear he tells her, "I never would have guessed either, you've been doing a top rail job!"

Brittany smiles, toying once more with the corners of her coat. "Michael thinks otherwise, he keeps giving me tips."

"Michael knows?" Noah bellows before biting his tongue sharply and giving Brittany an apologetic look. It quickly turns curious when he realizes, "Wait… does Santana know?"

Brittany gives him a small nod, smiling as she says, "she does."

Noah's mind works furiously to place all he's come to know in his head. "She knows but you…you two still…"

Brittany can see him trying to place her relationship with Santana. Quickly she tells him, "There's noth—"

"Oh no!" Noah interrupts, silencing her with a piercing stare. "If I have to listen to one of you say that _rehearsed_ line again I will shoot something. Preferably Cooper."

"But—"

"I'm not going to judge you any Brittany. Believe me, I've seen it _all_ ," he says with knowing chuckle and a wink. Noah has ventured into his fair share of brothels, seen the likes of things he's sure Brittany can't even begin to fathom. But even that is a lie compared to the real truth he's promised to hold secret in his heart. He knows of a family back home, two wonderful parents doing all they can to ensure their love is never found out. He never thought he'd ever meet anyone like them, let alone find the same in someone as young as Brittany. _Maybe someday_ , he thinks, _they could all meet_. If she trusts him enough to speak her feelings now, that is. He turns back toward her, hoping to draw just a bit more truth from her with his next words. "So since you're all about speaking the truth this mornin' how's about the truth on that too. You've feelings for her, don't you?"

Brittany hesitates, gauging whether to be honest with him or not. _He's your friend_ , echoes in her mind. _He promised not to judge_ …

She gives him a slow nod.

"And she treats you right?" he asks, smiling. "None of this backhand she gives me or Michael?"

Her next nod is more certain. The tightness coiled in her muscles finally calming. "She cares for me very much."

"And you?" he inquires softly. "Do you care for her too?"

"I love her, Noah, more than anything."

Noah smirks. "I thought so."

"You don't have to look so smug about it," Brittany reprimands, flicking a few clumps of dirt to his lap.

"Oh, I do," he says, brushing the soil aside. He grins cheekily up at her. "Because now this means Miss Santana can't go around lyin' to my face any longer."

Brittany grabs hold of his arm, yanking him close as she whispers, " _You can't tell her_!"

"What? Why not?"

Brittany lets out a sigh, releasing her hold upon his arm as she explains, "I promised not to tell anyone."

"Well now it's between you, I and her… and Michael," Noah adds after a second. "I'm sure that brain's figured you two out by now, you're about as obvious as virgins in a whore house."

"I don't think he has," Brittany replies. _If Michael knew he would have surely said something_ , she thinks. But more so she worries for what Noah just admitted. She thought they were being so careful…"And are we really?"

"You are. It's ridiculous at this point," Noah says with a laugh. "I still stand by what I said earlier. You both just need to be thrown into a tent and left alone," he repeats, standing to his feet and offering her his hand. Brittany allows him to pull her to her feet, the expression upon his face a might devious as he tells her in a hushed voice, "Though in place of a cock thanking me I reckon your fingers will be mighty grateful."

Noah expects a slap to follow, or even a bit of a glare. So he is more than surprised when instead he's enveloped in a hug. And, as if he needed it confirmed any more, the body pressed against his own is very much that of a woman. A thankful, elated woman, but a woman nonetheless. He can feel Brittany squeezing him tightly, strong arms causing a sputter of air to escape past his lips. _She's still as strong as Bret_ , he thinks to himself as he returns the embrace.

_She is Bret._

He hasn't lost his friend.

He's smiling as Brittany lets go, her blue eyes bright as they lock upon his own.

"Sorry," she tells him with a shy grin. "I've really just been wanting to do that for a long while now."

"All women want to hug me," Noah shrugs, a hint of arrogance leaking into his tone. "Never apologize for what nature intended."

Brittany laughs and Noah finds the sound far more befitting. "Santana would smack you for saying that."

"Well, it's a good thing you're the better half of that duo then isn't it?"

"I'm not the better one," Brittany tells him, grinning broadly. "She is."

"You _have_ to say things like that," he says with a roll of his eyes as they make their way toward their chore stations. "You're _in love_ with her,"

"I am," Brittany answers, feeling far freer than she has in weeks. A burden has been lifted square from her shoulders, the vice that had for so long felt clutched about her heart gone.

"You know how I said you both need to be thrown into a tent and left alone?"

"Yes?" Brittany supplies with a quirk of her brow.

"I'd like to recant that last bit," Noah says, his grin once more growing sly.

Brittany knows she is dim. Far slower than most but even she can read the expression upon his face. She shakes her head. "That won't ever happen."

"Brittany, I told you, I've seen it _all_ ," Noah tells her, insistent. "You two would be no different. Just let me—"

"No."

"I'll never breathe a—"

" _No_."

"You can't stop me."

"I can't, but Santana will."

"I can handle that high falutin' bag of hot air."

"She'll kill you."

"She won't hurt me."

"She made Cooper deaf in one ear."

"She did n—" he stops himself, thinking for a moment before amending, "No, I believe that. She did."

They laugh as they turn down a row heading toward the center of camp. Brittany can't help as her gaze lingers upon Cooper up ahead. He stands, hands shoved deep into his pockets as one of the doctors and Lieutenant Cooter speak with him. She lays a hand against Noah's arm, stilling the man in his steps beside her. She nods over toward Cooper and together they watch as the soldier's face pales considerably beneath the brim of his worn cap. A medic approaches, one Brittany has never seen before.

The young man moves to grab Coopers arm but Cooper quickly deflects, shoving the shorter man aside. Brittany doesn't understand what's happening. Not when the doctor lunges forward next and certainly not when Cooper lands a fist straight into the man's face.

"God danged, boy!" she can hear Lieutenant Cooter shouting as he pries Cooper from off the injured doctor. "I don't like this order any better 'an you! Don't mean you have to up and slug the poor doctor!"

"Unhand me!" Cooper shouts as the medic and doctor finally manage to pull Cooper's arms behind his back. "I'm not ill! _I swear it_!"

"Well," Noah says as they watch Cooper being led away. "Can't say he don't deserve it."

"But he's not ill…" Brittany mutters, confused.

"He's a bastard. That's sickness enough for me," Noah tells her. He pats her on the back and Brittany notices it's gentler than the usual touch he'd place upon Bret's. "I'll see you for supper then? That is God willing if this rain ever decides to fall."

Brittany nods, distracted as she continues to watch Cooper being forced down the path. Noah leaves her, shaking his head as he departs. He doesn't understand why Brittany looks so worried over Scott Cooper but than again he's made it a point to stop trying to decipher the inner workings of the female mind. If she wishes to stand there watching the poor bastard being led away then let her stand there in concern he will. He ain't spending one more second thinking about Cooper.

That man's done nothing to deserve it.

Brittany feels differently. If anything her encounter with Cooper this morning has proved that he's changed. Albeit, not entirely, but there was an effort on his part nonetheless. She trails after him, mindful to keep her distance. No one pays her any notice, the men she passes are too busy whispering amongst themselves, eyes very much rooted to the screaming man ahead. The rumors will be rampant come noon, she thinks as she comes to a stop beside the armory, riveted to the scene before her.

Dr. Lopez emerges from the field hospital, giving a nod as Cooper is displayed for him. The medic and doctor drag the now-slack and surrendered man inside, Cooper obviously having accepted whatever fate is soon to meet him. She continues watching as Dr. Lopez jots something quickly down inside the small journal in his hand. He raises his head after a moment, scanning the curious stares of the soldiers before him. His dark eyes narrow as they land upon her own; a shuddering chill pierces into her gut at the look.

She holds the glare, breathing deeply, refusing to show him even an ounce of her once vulnerable nature.

_I am not afraid of you_ , she thinks to herself, feeling all her resentments toward him bubble deep within her. _How could you hurt her?_

Dr. Lopez doesn't know what to make of the spine it seems the Pierce boy has suddenly grown overnight. Nor does he care. He closes his journal with a snap and heads back inside the field hospital.

After a minute Brittany rushes over to the entrance, peeking inside the tent flap, pleased to find the adjoining room free of Dr. Lopez. She spots Michael close by and ducks her head inside, waving to catch his attention. He looks confused for a moment at her sudden appearance, but smiles and makes his way over.

"What can I do for you, Bret?"

Brittany leans closer and asks quietly in return, "Do you know what's happened to Cooper?"

Michael gives her a quick shrug, he'd seen Cooper brought in but thought nothing more upon the matter. Though gauging by the troubled look in Brittany's eyes he can assume she feels otherwise. It strikes him odd, why she'd ever show such concern for such a vile person. "Why do you care what happens to him?"

"He's not ill," she tells him, adamant. "I just saw him, not _an hour_ ago."

Again Michael shrugs, "A lot can transpire in an hour."

Brittany never thought she'd live to see a day where Michael proved unhelpful. "Can you fetch Santana for me?" she asks, anxious.

"Of course," Michael tells her, still curious over Brittany's newfound predilection for Cooper but knowing if anyone where to be privy to his sudden ailment it would be Santana. "Just wait here."

As promised he brings Santana to her. Brittany must ignore the way Santana's eyes dart over her shoulder as she approaches, clearly wary of her father's whereabouts.

"I know you told me not to come," Brittany says quickly before Santana can even open her mouth to protest the same. "But I saw them bring Cooper in."

"He's being attended to," Santana tells her, her voice devoid of any inkling of emotion.

Hearing her sound so forcibly detached only serves to distress Brittany more. Something terrible has surely happened and what more Santana appears bent upon not disclosing. Brittany refuses to be left in the dark, let alone treated in such an indifferent manner. _Bret be damned_ , she thinks and implores in her own voice, "And? You _must_ know he's not sick."

Santana shifts nervously on her feet, eyes darting toward her sides. She cannot disclose the truth, not like this. _Not here_. They were to meet later, in the safety of Brittany's tent, where she not need fear the sharp ears of her father lurking nearby. And even then it was to be a simple conversation. A mention of an argument, the admittance that yes, she had been struck. But that there will be nothing to fear any longer. Brittany need not worry. _Not ever_. Not as she is now. She was never to have been privy to Coopers detention.

There is no lying about what she witnessed. "He's being sent away," Santana explains finally. She chances a glance back over her shoulder again, only minutely relieved to still find the space clear of Dr. Lopez. "Tomorrow, at the earliest."

"Home?" Brittany asks, confused. "Like Sam?" It didn't make much sense to her. If he is truly being sent away to recover, why not the rest of the men in the tent? They are _clearly_ sicker.

Santana can see Brittany thinking hard upon the matter. Not wanting to waste any more time she tells her bluntly, "My father's had him committed."

Brittany squints, still not comprehending. "To what?"

" _An asylum_ ," Santana snaps. Brittany's eyes widen, shocked by both Santana's answer as well as her harsh tone. Santana waits not the few moments Brittany needs recollect her thoughts, instead choosing to push the stunned woman back outside the tent. "You need to _go_."

But Brittany holds her ground, a new barrage of questions springing to mind as she asks, neck craning over Santana's head in hopes of catching a glimpse of Cooper, "Why are they sending him away? Is it because of what he did to me?"

"No, look I'll explain later, just please, if my father sees you here—"

Brittany relents and takes a step back, Santana's words dying upon her tongue at the move. Their eyes meet just before the tent flap falls and shrouds Brittany from view. Santana can still feel her heart lurching painfully at the forlorn expression held in those blue eyes. Brittany is upset with her, offended and rightfully so. Santana casts her gaze down, catching sight of Brittany's boots just barely peeking in from beneath the mud-dusted tent fold. And despite their close proximity the thin material separating them feels as though it might as well be miles thick instead.

_It's for the best_ , Santana tries to convince herself.

But even she knows that's nothing but a lie.

Santana watches the muted silhouette of the taller woman draw closer to the flap. "Can you meet me in Burt's in a half hour?" Brittany asks through the fabric.

"Brittany, you know I can't," Santana whispers.

Brittany presses her hand against the canvas, pleading, " _Please_ , it's important."

Santana sighs, unable to deny her the simple request. "Half hour?"

"Yes."

" _Okay_ ," she answers softly.

"Don't let him make you so upset, San."

Santana spares one last glance over her shoulder before allowing her fingers to brush against the shadow of Brittany's palm on the tent. "I know, Britt."

"You're a good doctor," Brittany whispers, smiling as she feels Santana's fingers trace a small path down her hand.

But her grin falls, heart breaking ever so slightly as Santana's hushed and pained voice carries through the tent, " _Please, go_."

_A half hour_ , Brittany tells herself as she backs away. In a half hour she'll make things right.

* * *

The soft patter of rain against Burt's tent nearly lulls Brittany to sleep. It'd been threatening to fall for days now, the sky continuously clouded with thick swatches of rolling grey. She feels her eyelids growing heavy as the rain trickles down, thunder echoing overhead. The temperature inside the tent drops a few more degrees, causing Brittany to huddle deeper within her coat.

_I should have started that fire,_ she thinks to herself, casting a regretful glance toward Burt's oven.

It's been longer than a half hour, the time encroaching closer to a full sixty minutes. A full hour spent sitting inside Burt's tent, cold, waiting for Santana to show. By now she's worried for both Santana's whereabouts and Burt's. She knows he's gone out to the cavalry ranks to affix some new shoes upon a few of the older mares. He'd asked her to accompany him but Brittany feigned a sore shoulder in order to remain inside the tent. It was the only excuse Burt ever grew concerned over. She hated lying to him, especially when afterward he wished her well and even went out of his way to fetch her a warm cup of milk.

It rests on the table, untouched; Brittany is unable to drink knowing to do so would only be unfair to him.

She doesn't deserve that milk.

She doesn't deserve his kindness.

And she's starting to think she should go join him and not bother waiting any longer when the tent flap rustles ahead and Santana quickly ducks inside. She's a bit winded, a few sections of her loosely-tied bun undone and damply framing her face. She closes the tent flap behind her, holding the canvas tight in her hands. Brittany's irritation is quick to abscond upon sight of the disheveled doctor.

"San?" she asks, worried as she slips down from the stool, the pit of her stomach stirring uncomfortably as wild notions spring to mind. Santana's shoulders are damp, the bottom fringe of her dress drenched and splattered with mud. She must be freezing, Brittany thinks, noting the lack of a coat upon Santana's frame. Brittany instantly begins unbuttoning her own.

"No, don't. I'm fine," Santana says as she releases the tent, tucking a few of those wayward hairs behind her ears. They sprout up not a second later, seemingly unwilling to bend to her command. "There was a rather _difficult_ patient after you left. I couldn't get away until now."

"That's all right," Brittany says, laying the coat over her wet shoulders anyway before gently taking a hold of Santana's hands. They're far colder than even she expected and with a tug Brittany pulls her near, drawing her further within the safety and relative warmth of Burt's work-tent. With every step closer they take toward the table, Brittany is thrilled to note the more relaxed Santana's expression grows. "Thank you for coming."

Santana gives her small smile, "I did promise."

"Do you want to sit?" Brittany asks, indicating toward the stool. But Santana gives her head a shake of her head. "Shall I start a fire? You're freezing and wet and it's cold and—"

"I won't be here long," Santana interjects before Brittany can ramble herself into a stupor. She leans her hip against the table, tracing one of Brittany's drawings atop as she asks, "You wanted to tell me something, remember?"

Brittany nods, nervous all of the sudden. She has an idea of how Santana will react to the news she's about to share. Badly, that is for sure. God knows she's had an hour to herself to simply imagine every given scenario that could unfold. None ended very well, her least favorite involving Santana's tenny shoved deep into her ear. The only solace brought to her now being that she doesn't see said instrument poking out from any of Santana's pockets.

_She's going to hate me_ , Brittany laments. _I promised never to tell…_

"I told Noah," Brittany confesses, eyes darting between Santana's own, desperate to gauge the suddenly-blank expression upon the face before her. She swallows hard, venturing further, "I told him who I really am…and a-about us."

Santana still remains reclined against the table, eyes growing unfocused, air no longer dispelling from her lungs. Brittany reaches a hand toward the one gripping the tabletop so powerfully she's afraid Santana's nail beds will start to bleed soon.

"San, you're hurting yourself," Brittany whispers.

" _Brittany_ ," Santana says, breathless and Brittany cringes, recoiling her hand and never wishing to hear her name spoken again with such… such absolute _spite_. " _How could you_?" Santana cries out, furious.

"He's okay with us!" Brittany tells her, following Santana as she pushes away from the table and moves toward the entrance. She can't let her leave, not like this. Reaching for her arm Brittany manages to pull her back around. There are thick tears in her brown eyes, the sight of which causes Brittany's throat to swell. Santana swats her hands aside, shaking her head even as Brittany tells her, "Don't cry, he's happy for us."

"He's lying, Brittany!" Santana exclaims, every fear she once repressed with Michael now resurfacing tenfold upon Brittany's admission.

Brittany's expression falls, chest constricting painfully as she asks, "Why would you say that?"

"Because we can't trust anyone with this!" Santana hisses. " _No one_!"

"But we can trust our _friends_ ," Brittany tells her. "They love us, San."

Santana scoffs, letting out a forced laugh. "Do they?"

"I want to tell Burt too," Brittany says as thunder roars loudly overhead, the rain pouring hard against the tent. "He deserves to know the truth."

"And if he's not as _happy_ with the truth as you claim Puckerman is, what then?" Santana demands, stepping forward until she can feel Brittany's staggered breaths upon her face. " _What then, Brittany_?"

"Burt could never hate me," Brittany confesses quietly, rattled. _It's impossible_ , she tells herself.

Santana can see Brittany's thoughts playing out upon the pained expression on her face. She's never intended to tell her, but knows she must now. "Michael almost found us out a few days ago and you know what he told me?" she asks, her own voice sounding equally unbalanced. Scared. "That it's depraved. _We're_ depraved."

Brittany's eyebrows crease, gaze disoriented. "What?"

"Wrong, Brittany!" Santana clarifies vehemently. "He said that what we have is wrong!"

Brittany shakes her head, backing away from Santana. "He'd never say that. He's our friend."

"He did! And I had to lie and tell him it was all some big misunderstanding just so I wouldn't have to see that—" Santana feels a sob try to force its way from her throat. She meets Brittany's despairing gaze, her own still burning with hopelessness. "That disgusted _look_ in his eyes anymore."

Santana quickly wipes the tears from her cheeks, body fatigued as she slumps onto the stool.

"You didn't see it," she whimpers, clasping her hands in her lap. "He was so…" she can't even will her mind to think further upon it.

"He just doesn't understand," Brittany tells her softly, easily plucking Santana's hands from her lap and holding them tightly in her own. Santana sniffles, lifting her chin but a fraction to look up at Brittany. A hopeful yet small smile meets her, Brittany's blue eyes bright. "Maybe if Noah speaks with him—"

"No, you don't _get_ it," Santana pries her hands free, standing once more. "Noah is the _exception_. To everyone else _we're wrong_."

"We're not wrong," Brittany says, resolute, eyes trained upon the fragmented ones before her. She reaches up, smoothing some damp hairs back from over Santana's forehead. "Do you really believe that?" she asks quietly.

"I…" Santana trails off, feeling so much warmth in Brittany's affectionate touch. She sighs, "I don't know anymore..."

"Santana, please, _please_ look at me," Brittany pleads, scratching a few of her fingers gently behind Santana's ear. When Santana focuses upon her, she asks, "Do you really think we're wrong?"

"Brittany…" Santana breathes out, surrendering as she turns her head aside. She can feel Brittany press her forehead to her temple and she knows those blue eyes haven't closed.

Not when she feels more than hears Brittany whisper, "Because I think we're the most right there ever was." A kiss placed then to the corner of her jaw. "Or ever will be."

Santana breaks away. "There's so much going on you don't know about."

"Then tell me. _Please_ ," Brittany begs, not knowing what else she can possibly say. She feels as if she's losing Santana, for every second that passes yet another piece of her heart is gone with her. Her throat stings as fresh tears form in her eyes. "I can see something's hurting you and I don't know what to _do_ anymore. I'm so confused, San. _Please_."

"I _can't_ ," Santana whispers, hating that she's the sole reason Brittany stands so broken before her.

But Brittany refuses to give up. "It's your Pa."

"Brittany, please."

"He's the one who did that to you, isn't he?" Brittany asks, gaze flittering over the bruise. It's darkened since this morning, the smallest hint of purple shows beneath Santana's skin. Brittany can feel her pulse racing again. "Santana, _what did he do_?"

"He struck me, obviously!" Santana answers, sick of dodging the question. Brittany's gaze hardens, fist clenching by her sides. Santana sighs. "As I said, I spoke out of turn."

"That's not a reason to strike _anyone_ ," Brittany growls. "Let alone your own blood."

Santana lets out a callous chuckle. "Disowning his name seemed to not matter much in that regard."

Brittany's anger is quick to fade. "Santana… have you truly?"

Santana quiets, nodding.

"Then why do you still share his cabin?"

"He's," Santana begins, pausing as she thinks the best way to explain it all to Brittany. The truth will be simplest, she knows. But she does not wish to bring more pain to the woman, not after everything she's had her endure these past weeks. Santana knows she's been a less than ideal friend, let alone a partner. Everything is always initiated on her own terms, her own time… when her needs are most roused. Brittany's never said a word once in opposition as Santana slipped into her tent at night, never expressed her own desires… Not even when Santana has forced her into keeping her distance and silence. Not even when, she realizes now, she has forced Brittany to keep her heart closed. She wants to apologize, tell her she misses seeing Brittany smile at her from across the breakfast table, misses catching the wink in her eye as she dashes past on errand.

_She's not Bret with me_ , Santana reminds herself.

_But she must be_. Until they are home, she must.

"I'd rather share a tent with you," Santana tells her softly, Brittany giving her a smile that warms her heart in return. "But he's forced me to stay with him. You know how he ill he thinks of you."

"I hate him," Brittany grumbles.

"You're not alone."

"You could stay with Burt then, perhaps?" Brittany offers, the idea bringing a large smile to her face. "Then we can see each other and _he'd_ be none the wiser! And I could tell Burt about us he'd—"

"No!" Santana interrupts, a panicked look flashing in her eyes. She calms though as Brittany stares down at her, upset by the outburst. "Just don't tell Burt, _please_ Brittany. Let Noah be enough."

"I hate lying to him," Brittany tells her.

"Then for _me_ ," Santana pleads. "Will you please do it for me?"

Brittany feels like they are right back where they started again. Santana asking her to lie for her once more. _Nothing's changed_ , she thinks with a stab of dejection in her gut. "I can't promise you nothing."

"God damn it all to hell, Brittany, it's _anything_!" Santana groans, exasperated. "Why can't you—"

"Just say it, Santana," Brittany snarls. "It's obviously all you think of me now."

Santana pales. "Britt, I didn't—"

"I think you should go," Brittany tells her, unable to meet her eyes, gaze firmly rooted to the stool instead. The stool doesn't disappoint her so.

Santana refuses to depart on such uncertain terms. Though she finds herself bitterly replying with, "You asked me here."

Brittany's eyes flash, narrowing into her own. "That was _wrong_ of me."

Santana need not dwell upon the way her chest constricts at the words spat toward her. She more than deserves Brittany's anger. Welcomes it even. How many times had she been the one delivering similar sentiments? Only before they have been returned by Brittany's unfailing patience… her unwavering devotion. Santana lets the coat over her shoulders slip down her arms. She folds it neatly, laying it to rest atop the stool.

"You're right, you know," she says as she brushes some dirt from off the sleeve. She looks up at Brittany, the other woman's scowl still firmly in place, even despite the subtle softening of her eyes. "About us. We're not wrong," Santana tells her honestly. "The world may think it's wrong of me to love you but I do and I know in my heart _it's right_."

As she turns to leave Brittany reaches out, her hand wrapping firmly about Santana's wrist. " _It is_ ," Brittany agrees, voice thick with emotion. She manages a wobbly smile as she tells her, "And I don't like fighting with you. It makes me feel sick." Her nose twitches, a thought coming to mind as she says aloud, "Though not flux sick because that's foul and you don't make me want to defecate like that, San."

_Good god, Brittany_ , Santana thinks with a chuckle and a revolted curl of her top lip, _please don't elaborate further_. "I don't think—"

"But more a fever," Brittany carries on regardless, a thoughtful knot upon her brow. "I get real hot and queasy and I feel as if—"

"Okay, let's just stop there." Santana finally claps her hand over Brittany's mouth. She can feel Brittany's lips trying to form words on her palm, until blue eyes meet her own and any further embellishments she was trying to express still upon her tongue. Brittany can see the repentance in Santana's gaze, feel it in the hesitant way the hand leaves her lips, moving instead to toy with her shirt collar. Santana rolls the first undone button slowly between her fingers, unsure how to apologize. She'd never fully said the words, but the implication was more than received. The hurt in Brittany's eyes is more than apparent. Santana's never felt more heartless. "I'm so sorry I almost called you…" she cringes, unable to complete her thought. Her fidgets cease, hand lying flat against Brittany's chest. She can feel the strong thuds of Brittany's heart in her palm, calm and steady. "You're not—"

Brittany reaches up, pressing her own hand over Santana's. "You can say stupid, San. I know you didn't really mean it."

"It doesn't matter if I meant it or not," she says, holding tight to Brittany's hand as she finally looks up. Brittany's smiling down at her softly, gaze forgiving. Santana feels so undeserving of her. "It was wrong of me to even _think it_. You're not stupid Britt, far from it." And with a bold grin that makes Brittany's stomach flip oh-so-delightfully, Santana tells her, "You're the sharpest tool under my bed."

It's enough just to see the way Brittany's face lights up at her words. She never expects the speed with which Brittany moves next. In an instant she's brought a hand gently against Santana's swollen cheek, the other slipping beside her neck. Her lips are captured in a delicate kiss, Brittany's body soon coming to press up against her own. Santana swallows down the yelp of surprise at the sudden affection bestowed upon her. She also thinks bestowed isn't quite the right word. She's not been given anything.

Brittany wants her, in this moment, and she's not hesitant in her desires. Santana can't help but smile into the kiss, thinking fondly at the sudden act of boldness. One she very much welcomes, letting her own arms wrap behind Brittany's back as she draws her nearer. She can hear Brittany let out the softest of moans, sharp teeth gently tugging upon her bottom lip soon after. Santana feels her stomach twist into a mess of flutters, mind growing ever more clouded, heat sinking deep past her belly.

The small of her back meets the table, a whimper of a sound elicited from somewhere deep in her throat when she feels Brittany's hands take firm hold of her hips. She's vaguely aware of the sensation of her feet leaving the ground; Brittany easily picks her up and sets her down just as quickly atop the table. She's more than aware of the hands now sliding down to her thighs, the heat of Brittany's palms burning straight through the skirt of her dress. A dizzying combination when mixed with the searing kisses being trailed down her neck.

Santana hooks her legs behind Brittany, drawing her closer until the clink of her belt buckle smacks against the table edge. It's drowned out by the clap of thunder overhead, the briefest flash of lightning cuts across the sky casting a sharp glow atop the tent roof. The table shakes and both are unsure if it's the sky's doing or their own. Brittany rubs a hand back up Santana's thigh, the other resting soundly atop her opposite knee. She can feel Santana trembling beneath her touch, the faintest hint of a smile crossing her lips as the table bumps against her waist. _Her doing_ , Brittany thinks. _My fault._

She pulls away though; smile faltering as she feels Santana pull the cap from off her head. Dark eyes are intently focused upon her own as Santana places her hat on the table and pulls her long braid over one shoulder. "San," Brittany manages to utter, voice hoarse, pulse racing.

"You're not Bret with me," is the whispered rasp of a reply that meets her ears before full lips are hungrily pressed against hers once more. Santana cups Brittany's face in her palms, tilting her head up, pulling her further into the kiss. Brittany doesn't even recall how Santana ended up atop the table but the legs locking behind her back drive a want so thick into her gut it makes all other cognizant thought impossible. All she can feel is Santana, hands hot upon her skin, kiss slow, wet and intoxicating. Her heart hammers against her chest; she's missed being intimate like this with her. Misses her entirely.

They part, Brittany burying her face against Santana's neck, breathing hard as her arms wrap behind the small of Santana's back. "It gets harder and harder to pretend I don't love you," she whispers against heated skin, eyes still closed as she presses her body closer, clinging as tightly to Santana as she can manage.

"I know and I'm sorry," Santana breathes out softly, turning her head to brush her lips over a spot just beside Brittany's ear. She crosses her arms behind Brittany's neck, the blond braid obscured beneath her sleeve as she tugs her close. "We'll be home soon."

Thoughts, time and concerns are lost as they find their lips meeting once more.

What they fail to notice is Burt –who only returned to retrieve a few spare nails— standing agape in the tent entrance at the sight before him. Water cascades down, drenching his covered back as he silently exits the tent, rain pouring so thick the two figures inside become nothing more than a blur. He closes the tent flap, lightning flashing overhead and thunder shaking the air. And as he turns, intent upon informing the cavalry their mares will have to wait, a knowing smile firmly plants itself upon his face.

Patience it seems is indeed a virture for he knew he'd catch Bret with Santana eventually.


	13. The Ice We Dance Upon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song credit for this chapter: _Auld Lang Syne_ the Robert Burns version. And in a nerdy historical note it was actually a very popular song among troops. So popular that come later in the month this chapter takes place it is banned from being sung in Union camps. For, get this, being too depressing and threatening. AKA, Union leaders feared their men would desert as the song reminded them so much of the home they were missing. *Insert "The More You Know" star here* ;)

The rain lets up come evening, leaving the camp sodden and many a soldier overcome with chills. Clothes are hung to dry by fires spread throughout the tent lanes; soldiers huddle nearby immersed in the warmth of the flames. The bonfires are so many in number the clouds still lingering low in the sky above are cast orange. The whole of the camp seems to burn beneath a blanket of haze. Santana watches, silent, as the clouds grow darker with the coming night, orange giving way to the deepest of blacks as the temperature plunges ever further. A few remaining droplets of water sprinkled against the windowpane catch the firelight, slowing in their descent as they begin to freeze against the glass.

She can feel the cold of the air outside permeating through the window and tucks her arms closer into her body.

It's warm inside the cabin, the fire she started earlier in the stove still as inviting upon her back as it was a mere half hour ago. From behind she can hear the faint sounds of Brittany's bath water rippling in the tub, occasionally distracting her from the sights beyond the window.

And whenever Brittany feels need to speak, Santana forgets entirely why she's perched on her cot as she is.

"This must be what giants feel like," Brittany notes aloud after several minutes in silence lapse between them. She shifts uncomfortably in the small tub, trying to regain feeling to her toes. With a grunt she draws her legs up closer to her chest, knees now peeking high out of the water. She lets out a sigh as she scrubs some soap over the exposed skin. "Giants and Finn."

Santana says nothing in response, her attention fixed upon whatever it is that lies just outside the window. She readjusts her footing, hands gripped upon the edge of the window ledge, eyes narrowed in annoyance out the glass pane.

Brittany doesn't understand why she's insistent upon keeping watch. "San, come down from there," she tells her. "Noah is already looking out for us."

"He seems to think that entails _checking in_ every so often," Santana mutters darkly, scanning the men milling about the lane for Noah's telltale blue scarf. Supper with the boy had already been awkward enough and near impossible to sit through after Brittany had mentioned needing a bath. Santana doesn't think she's ever seen Noah looked more excited and was none too pleased by his insistence he keep guard. _Never again_ , she thinks to herself. "The twit's tried to peek in here at least twice already."

"I told him not to," Brittany says, ducking her head between her knees to rinse the soap from out her hair. As she sits back up, brushing clumps of wet hair from her face, she notices Santana's eyes upon her. She can't help but smile. This is first time since she's disrobed that Santana's even so much as glanced her way. "Come here," she motions down toward the tub.

Santana's back is still turned, hands gripping harder to the window ledge. "Are you nearly finished?" she asks, not daring to let go. God forbid the moment she does her hands instead find purchase upon the damp skin she's been deftly avoiding as if it were a bout of infectious plague. _Gloriously infectious plague._ For Brittany's skin, even rubbed raw in places from the confined tub, is as tempting to her gaze as she knows it would be to her touch.

"I'm not yet wrinkled," Brittany replies, inspecting the tips of her fingers. She looks back up at Santana, the brown eyes that were once so focused upon her own now clouded, darker as they stare down upon her shoulder. Brittany slides deeper into the water until her own gaze is once more locked upon Santana's. Santana snaps from her daze, eyes clear and face burning hot as Brittany asks, "San? Why is it only my fingers get like this?" She sits up straighter and wiggles a few in Santana's direction. "You're a doctor, you must know why the rest of a body stays the same. Is it only humans? I don't notice wrinkles on Lord Tubbington's paws when I give him a bath… but most of the time it's because he's trying to put his claws in my eyes."

"I…" Santana croaks, voice nothing but a rasp of sound escaping her throat. The question has caught her off guard, surely, but nowhere near the level of Brittany's suddenly exposed chest. Santana's not sure if Brittany hasn't noticed or if she simply doesn't care that her breasts are on full display. Yet knowing the woman as she does, she can't help but think it the latter. The assuredness of such a thought kindles the longing already pulsing through her veins.

Brittany stares up at her expectantly, awaiting a response it seems will never manifest. After a moment the expression upon Santana's face registers within her mind. It's the same as the one she had upon her face just a few hours prior in Burt's tent as they parted for air between kisses. The same darkened eyes, same parted lips. Same desire, same want. "Santana?" Brittany urges quietly, motioning once more for the other woman to draw near.

Santana releases her hold upon the window, turning toward Brittany. As the cool air meets her warmed back a shiver rolls down her spine, snapping her back to the present. Brittany's earlier question floats to the conscious level of her mind, the innocence of it dousing the heat beneath her belly. She runs a chilled hand through her hair, calming as she steps down from the cot. "Your fingers wrinkle due to the thicker layer of skin needing space to expand," she explains finally, voice still shaky as she digs out a journal from beneath her cot. She opens it, pressing it solidly against the window to block out any unwanted eyes from peeking within. She only hopes Noah keeps his promise to alert them the moment Dr. Lopez approaches.

Brittany tries not to let her disappointment show at Santana's obvious indifference to her question, instead untangling her hair as she asks, "But it's interesting, right?"

Santana meets her gaze, noting that the joy contained in Brittany's eyes just a moment ago is gone. She squats down beside the tub, keeping her own eyes firmly locked upon Brittany's. She wants so much to reach out and brush some blonde hair over the woman's wet shoulder. Instead she shrugs, clasping her hands deep into the folds of her dress. The fire in the oven crackles loudly. Brittany worries her bottom lip between her teeth as she tries to reason through Santana's actions. What would be so wrong with touching her?

"San—" Brittany begins to softly voice her thought but is drowned out by a remark of Santana's own.

"You really should reconsider your hair," Santana tells her and Brittany immediately stops trying to work through a rather nasty knot.

A thicker knot seems to form within her stomach at the comment. "I told you I'm not cutting it," Brittany replies in a whisper.

Santana leans closer, gaze somber. "It's dangerous, Britt."

Brittany casts her eyes down, fingering the ends of her hair as she says quietly, "Emily would hate it if I did."

There's a soft rustling of clothes and then a warm hand is pressed against Brittany's damp cheek. She can feel Santana brushing her thumb high along her cheekbone, urging her chin upward so their eyes may meet once again. Santana is smiling at her sadly, hand still cupped against her face as she says, "I think Emily would care more you are safe."

"It's all I have left of me…" Brittany confesses. She glances back up toward Santana, eyes pained as she asks, "Can I think about it?"

"You'd still be you," Santana whispers.

"I'd be ugly," Brittany grumbles.

Santana chuckles, tapping her thumb against Brittany's nose gently. "Impossible," she says.

Brittany manages a small smile, lifting a hand from within the tub and fitting it over Santana's upon her cheek. "I really wish this tub was bigger," Brittany says, leaning her head against Santana's hand. "We could both fit then."

Santana feels her face and neck burn hot, her gaze dropping down to her lap. "Brittany."

Brittany slides Santana's hand from her jaw; brushing a few light kisses to the back of her knuckles. "I'd very much like to share a bath with you," she whispers against the back of her hand.

"Not here," Santana says quietly, shaking her head, eyes rooted to her skirt. Her breath hitches as she feels her hand being placed against Brittany's collarbone and then slid down over the flat plane of her breastbone. She can feel the heart beneath start to beat faster, skin growing warmer. "Brittany," Santana all but whimpers out; a breathless plead.

Brittany watches Santana's jaw tighten, her eyes squeeze shut. "It's all right to touch me," she tells her softly, hoping Santana can feel the way her heart now races. "I'd like that too."

Santana's eyes dart up, terrified and yet filled with want as they lock upon Brittany's. "If _he_ were to—"

Brittany leans toward her, her other hand now clasped behind Santana's neck. "We're alone. _Safe_ ," Brittany whispers, pulling her near. She presses a light kiss to Santana's temple, another to her bruised cheek. "Do you not want me?" she asks softly, fearing for the answer in the way Santana's hand stays firmly over her heart.

Santana cannot will words to form let alone the ounce of strength it would take to shake her head. She's sure doing so would only confuse Brittany; the courier desires a nod, an affirmation that yes, she very much does want her. Has always wanted her. But Santana need only hear the sparks of the fire to know now is not the time, _this_ is not the place. Not surrounded by possessions of her father, her thoughts consumed with the fear of his subsequent untimely arrival.

 _Noah promised to look out for him_ , she reminds herself.

Brittany's hopeful words echo in her mind. _We're alone, safe._

And she so does desire to carry out what they started in Burt's tent.

With a quick lick of her lips she looks up, meeting Brittany's eyes. They're dilated, far more than she's ever seen them. They search her own, the fingers behind her neck tender as they trace back and forth across her skin. Brittany hasn't waned in her yearnings, not in the least as she awaits an answer.

Santana keeps her eyes upon Brittany's as she moves her hand lower beneath the lukewarm water, her palm fitting over a small breast. Brittany's back arches into the touch, eyes falling shut, a gasp pulled from her throat. Santana feels as if the flames of the oven fire have taken home within her gut. She slides forward, tucking her legs beneath her as she leans over the tub and captures Brittany's lips between her own.

She can feel the sleeve of her dress stick along her skin, the water soaking up her arm. A shiver of wonderful chills roll up to her shoulder as Brittany's hands tangle in her hair, their kiss growing ever more impassioned. She can't hear the pops of the fire, merely the blood rushing through her ears and the sounds of Brittany's small moans as she cups her hand firmer to her breast.

Brittany curls her toes against the tub edge when Santana's tongue seeks entrance to her mouth, running just against her top lip. Warm fingers roll over her hardened nipple, teeth raking over her bottom lip as Brittany pulls her mouth closer. A splash of water meets her ears as Santana's free hand drops down into the tub and finds purchase along the small of her back. Brittany only wishes the tub were bigger, lamenting but for a moment how she craves to pull Santana in and completely atop her. The thought is lost, forgotten as tongues brush together and the deepest of sounds is rendered from Santana's throat at the action.

Brittany wants to touch her, feels so utterly confined in the tiny tub.

She moves up to her knees, Santana drawn to hers with her. Brittany's hands work blindly to undo the topmost buttons to Santana's dress. Her fingers slip, wet against the small clasps, unable to find purchase. A groan pushes past her lips as she pulls Santana closer with a yank. A few buttons rip from the collar and clink against the tub as they fall to the water with a plop. The sound only spurs Santana to kiss her all the more, lips daring to move across jaw, hot as they burn a path down her neck.

They're snapped apart as a quick succession of knocks is rapt against the door. Panting, eyes still heavy with desire, they look upon one another.

" _Get Britt out!_ " Noah's hushed command meets their ears followed by the pounding of his steps as he rushes to intercept Dr. Lopez.

They scramble, water sloshing from the tub to spill against the floor as Brittany jumps from out the bath. She grabs for her towel, Santana swatting her hand aside, hissing out, "No time! Dress!" as she thrusts Brittany's undergarments into her wet hands. Brittany's eyes are wide, pupils pinprick sharp as she hurries into her fresh clothes. Santana tosses the towel to the ground, soaking up as much of the mess as she can. From outside she can hear Noah greeting her father, their voices fading as Dr. Lopez is led away.

 _But for how long_ , Santana thinks, her heart lurching painfully at the thought. Brittany is shaking, hands unable to complete buttoning her shirt. Santana steps forward, helping her to finish, their eyes meeting as she clasps the last along her collar.

"San," Brittany whispers, voice nothing but a quiver of sound. Santana tugs her down, crashing their lips together. The kiss is desperate, desires from mere seconds before still unquenched. Brittany clings to Santana, heart racing for an entirely different reason now as she hugs Santana tight.

"Trust in Noah," Santana tells her as they part, brushing quick kiss to Brittany's cheek. She hands Brittany her coat, helping to braid her hair quickly as Brittany buttons herself warmly inside her uniform. Her cap is tugged down atop her head next, a wide-eyed Bret Pierce ready to exit the cabin. As Brittany collects her dirty uniform from the table Santana climbs back atop her cot, plucking her journal from the window to peer outside. She finds Noah hastily, engaged in conversation with Dr. Lopez.

Dr. Lopez's back is turned to the cabin. She can see her father's shoulders tensing, his patience growing thin. She turns down to Brittany. "Go," she tells her.

Brittany gives a nod, opening the door but a crack. She peeks outside, spotting Dr. Lopez down the lane with Noah. All her anxieties flee at the sight of the man, a burst of anger quickly rising to fill the void. To think she could hate him anymore. She feels Santana place a calming hand against her back. Brittany looks back over her shoulder, Santana nodding for her to leave.

"Go, Britt," Santana mouths, pushing against her back gently.

Brittany gives her as confident a smile as she can muster as she tells her, "I'll see you soon," before slipping outside the door and letting it fall silently shut behind her. Santana presses close to the door, listening as Brittany's steps fade around the side of the cabin.

She leans her forehead against the wood, breathing hard, relieved and spent.

 _She's safe_ , Santana repeats like a mantra in her mind. She turns her head to the side; the tub is still filled with water, floor a mess. She moves to begin cleaning the rest when the door is thrown open and the bitter cold of the night air rushes into the cabin. Santana scoots back from the door, shuddering as the wind bites at her damp skin.

He enters then, steps halting as he takes in the sight of the dirtied tub and Santana's less than composed state of dress. She straightens her posture respectfully, hands deftly held behind her back as he narrows his gaze toward her. The scent of soap lingers upon the air, soap and the burning wood from the fire. He prods with his foot the drenched towel crumpled on the floor. Santana was never one to leave such disarray whenever she bathed.

She knows better than to invite his wrath.

Nevertheless he hasn't the time to dwell upon the newfound boorish nature his daughter has turned to in his absence. It is clear her mind is becoming unhinged without a name with which to align herself. _She's brought this madness upon herself_ , he thinks. _Acting out in jealously_ , _so very low and petty_. He shant show her an ounce of consideration. Desperate acts are best ignored.

"Clean this mess up," he orders, retrieving his coat from atop his cot. Before he exits he turns to her, eyeing the wet patches along her neck. Though, perhaps, one parting comment won't assuage his apathy. "And do cease bathing like such a savage."

He slams the door as he exits, the entirety of the cabin shaking in its wake. Santana wishes to do nothing more than collapse atop her cot and breathe for what feels the first time in ages.

But her father's sudden appearance and even more so flippant departure stirs peculiar within her gut. She wonders if he's heading to the church and that if she were to leave now perhaps she could follow. Garner some insight into what is spinning so dangerously within his mind. She slips on her boots and coat, wrapping one of Brittany's scarves snuggly around her neck. She touches the fabric wistfully, heart pained, knowing full well what Brittany were to say if she knew where she was headed.

 _She'd ask me to stay_ , Santana thinks.

Her mind was made up the moment he entered. A light snow has begun to fall as she closes the door to the cabin behind her. In the dirt she can see her father's steps away from the cabin, soon to be covered by the snow if she doesn't move quickly.

"Santana!" Noah calls before she can take another step forward. He runs up, cheeks and nose colored red from the cold.

"Noah, look, I need to be somewhere right now but thank you for your help," she tells him, patting his arm as she takes off down the lane.

Noah catches up quickly, keeping pace beside her. "That's all? A simple thanks?" he quips.

Santana stops, stares at him through narrowed eyes for but a second before landing a slap against his arm.

Noah recoils, rubbing his bicep beneath his two jackets. "What was that for?" he asks, affronted. "I saved you both just then!"

"For trying to catch a gander at Britt," Santana tells him, scanning the lanes for Dr. Lopez. "You're absolutely odious."

"I don't know what that means, but it don't sound too nice," Noah grumbles, nudging her shoulder. She begins walking again and Noah falls into step beside her once more. "Where are you going?"

"After my— Dr. Lopez, I'm going after Dr. Lopez," she tells him. Just ahead she spots him, engaged in a conversation he looks to be rid off with Lieutenant Cooter. "I need to know what he's doing, Noah."

Noah follows her line of sight until it lands upon the man. He feels a shudder take over his spine just recalling how horrid it was to speak with him. It feels like it took every word in his vocabulary just to keep the doctor's attention focused on him. The minute he saw Brittany disappear behind that cabin he bid the man adieu and hoped he'd never have to look back. And the way Santana is staring at him now, he has a feeling she won't be giving up her pursuit. "Do you want me to come with?" he asks her quietly.

Santana looks up at him, touched that he'd even wish to help her in this matter. "No," she tells him with a soft smile. "Though could you keep Brittany here? Not let her worry?"

"I don't like the idea of you going after him all by yourself," Noah confesses, wary. "And what with the snow coming down now and all…"

"I don't plan on being seen," she assures him. And with a wry grin adds, "And this is nothing compared to winters in Ohio, even you can attest to that."

Noah nods, giving her shoulder a squeeze as he tells her, "If you're not back in an hour I'm coming after you myself."

Santana doesn't bother replying, simply throwing another assured smile over her shoulder as she follows in her father's steps out of the camp.

* * *

Santana keeps well-paced and far behind sight of her father and his vigilant ears. The walk up to town is long; her only fear is that her hour will have elapsed and Noah will come charging in sure to out her in his failed attempt at heroics. Nevertheless she presses on, hugging her arms to her chest as the snow falls harder, the moonlight obscured behind thick clouds.

Her feet have frozen inside her boots as she trudges through the slosh upon the ground. She need not look down to know the hem of her dress is a splattered mess of ice and mud. There is only a moment's relief when she spots the first lamps still burning along the road ahead, the town not far beyond. Her father's heavy steps are clear as day beneath the small flames. They are the only ones currently laid in the freshly fallen snow.

She follows them, mindful to keep her own steps hidden within his strides. She can hear the crunch of the snow, loud against her ears in the otherwise quiet night as she makes her way toward the center square. The town is asleep; only a few lamps are still aglow behind the curtains in apartments above the storefronts. Ahead she can see the spire of the church rising in the center of town, a few candles lit in the windows.

Her father walks toward it, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. A few soldiers stumble from the tavern, laughing, their arms draped around some town prostitutes as they head across the street. She watches as her father looks upon them with scorn, never once stopping as he continues in his path for the church. She holds her position, waiting in the darkness of the corner street until he passes through the doors.

Once the doors close and nothing save for the soft sound of snow sizzling against the street lamps' flame meets her ears she makes her way over. The windows are low enough for her to peer inside, the church empty save for her father who sits in a pew near the front, starring listlessly up at the small alter. After a moment he bends to his knees in prayer. She watches for a short while, waiting for him to move, but when it becomes apparent he won't she steps back from the window.

What Michael confided to her is true. _He's just praying_ , she thinks, growing ever more perplexed. _Why?_ She's not sure what she imagined to find after following him but feels a sense of loss now having witnessed the truth first hand. There is no more to be seen, nothing she can gain from this endeavor.

The snow continues to fall as she makes her way back to camp, far more confused and ever more anxious than when she left. She simply cannot grasp what is going on in that man's mind. Her thoughts are no more sensible than his actions.

_What has driven him to such extensive prayer? To lie so blatantly before his peers? To abuse his station and administer opium to himself in such abundance and disregard for his own health?_

She's already attested his behavior earlier to the drug. It is surely what is numbing his senses and heightening his thornier characteristics. _Not to mention his delusions_ , she thinks with a sigh. To think Cooper posed a threat to him is outrageous. Laughably so.

And yet Dr. Lopez felt it enough to have him committed regardless.

Santana can't help but think the wrong man was sent away.

Her _superior_ has clearly lost his grip upon reality.

She's still thinking upon his insanity when she finds her friends. They are already sitting around a fire behind Burt's tent. A few poles have been driven into the ground, the tents' flaps tied up to create a canopy against the falling snow. It's not a perfect solution, she knows, but it affords to keep them dry and their fire untouched. Michael waves her over, having spotted her first. She holds tight to her coat as she hurries over, Brittany snapped from her enjoyment of Noah's song as the crunch of snow beneath Santana's feet meets her ears.

She grins, sitting up and giving a few enthused pats to the empty space beside her. Santana takes a seat, grateful for the warmth of the fire and the arm Brittany links with her own. She can feel Brittany lean toward her, their shoulders brushing as she settles closer and her belly warms ever more. Her gaze instantly flicks over toward Michael, relieved to find the man's attention held by the fire. There's a lot upon his mind, she knows, and not wishing to disturb his thoughts she turns her attention up to Noah.

He is looking at her, trying so hard to mask the nosey stare she knows he wishes to send her way.

" _I'm fine_ ," Santana mouths to him, pleased when he visibly relaxes and resumes strumming his guitar once again.

All else is forgotten as they indulge in their nightly ritual. It is easy to do so with the curtain of snow that feels as though separates them from the camp. Noah, for once, is without a drink tonight. Michael remains lost in thought, occasionally sharing in a dance or two upon Brittany's insistence. Santana can tell the death of his daughter is still a fresh wound upon his heart. He falters in his usually graceful steps, the smile he gives to Brittany in thanks after their dance is never the same as before. Not as wide, eyes not as bright.

He laughs though, humored when Noah pulls them all inside Burt's empty tent and asks for Brittany to let down her hair.

"I told you it was long!" Noah tells him, extending his hand out palm up. He curls his fingers a few times, eyebrows bouncing on his forehead. "Now pay up."

"I haven't a greenback on me," Michael says with a chuckle and a shrug. Yet as Brittany pulls her hair back up under her cap his smile falls as he tells her, "I was rather hoping you kept it short."

Santana ushers them all out before the look of misery upon Brittany's face can haunt her any more.

They're able to sing just one more song before the snow starts getting worse and they must head to their beds. The last tune of the night is always sung by Santana, tonight no different. Much to everyone's delight her repertoire is now vastly expanded. Though Brittany always requests _Long Ago_ anyway, the song quite dear to her.

And for the first time in weeks Santana consents to her request, unable to say no after everything else Brittany's had to tolerate today. The way Brittany discretely threads their hands together beneath her coat when she begins to sing makes it all the more worthwhile.

When the song is over and the night must come to an end the men stay to secure Burt's tent and douse the waning fire.

Brittany walks Santana back to her cabin; the two huddled close against the densely falling snow. They stop a few cabins away, both hesitant to part. There is so much Santana wishes to tell her still but instead she shrugs free of her coat. Brittany is surprised by the move and only grows more so when Santana holds it out to her.

"Santana, no, you need this," Brittany insists, pushing it gently back toward her.

But Santana shakes her head, forcing the coat into Brittany's arms. "I have a fire to keep me warm tonight, you've not."

Brittany hugs the material close. "You could stay with me?" she asks with a hopeful grin.

"You know I can't," Santana tells her, blinking against the snow catching on her lashes. She reaches up, holding tight to Brittany's wrist. "Promise me if you get cold you'll go to Burt's tent."

"But if in the morn he sees me—"

Santana interjects, "Ever more reason to cut your hair."

"I know…" Brittany mutters, chin turned down. The snow that had collected upon the brim of her cap slides down, landing upon Santana's coat. She brushes it off gently. "I'll be okay in my tent," she says quietly, looking back up at Santana. She gives her a halfhearted smile. "Thank you for the coat." And with that she begins to step away.

"Wait," Santana says, pulling Brittany back with a gentle tug of her sleeve. Brittany allows herself to fall into place in front of her once more, closer this time, their small clouds of breath mixing before them. Santana chances a glance to their sides before letting her hand slide lower, fingers lacing warmly with Brittany's. "I love you. I feel I don't much get to say it enough."

Brittany's grin is infectious. "You say it in other ways," she tells her, nose crinkling as she holds the coat up beneath her chin. "And I love you as well, so much."

"Keep warm," Santana whispers, wishing she had the courage to kiss her.

Brittany is more than aware of what the look in Santana's eyes means and what she wouldn't give for the doctor to act upon that desire. Instead she nods, gripping Santana's hand tight and tells her, "keep safe."

* * *

Brittany yawns, stretching as she plops down onto one of Burt's stools the next morning. Her thickest blanket is wrapped tightly about her shoulders, and even with her coat buttoned high up her neck and a half woven scarf draped around her shoulders she's still shivering. She's thankful for the roaring fire Burt has already seen to starting in his stove; the warmth washes over her chilled cheeks and seeps down into her frigid bones. She could barely sleep last night, the cold as unrelenting in its reach as the snow that piled outside her tent.

The camp had woken to at least two feet of the frost coating everything in sight. Pristine, glaring white, untouched snow. It was something that once brought her great joy, the promise of a morning spent with Emily by her side. Running through the fields, chores ignored in favor of chasing after snow fairies. Or those mornings after a third snow when the lake froze over enough to dance upon the surface. She misses ice dancing, misses the snow in Lima where there was always the promise of a morning spent in warmth despite the chill and where her father would always have ready for them a steaming mug of milk upon their return.

 _Perfect mornings_ , Brittany remembers, heart aching for home.

Her memories become jumbled as Burt places a bowl of cornmeal before her and slides a cup of steaming milk toward her hand. Brittany gives him a grateful smile, albeit tired, as she reaches for the drink.

"Didn't get much sleep either, did you?" Burt asks as he takes a seat beside her and begins eating his own meal. He watches as Brittany shakes her head, her eyes a dull shade of their usual vibrant blue. He can see the beginnings of fatigue collected in the skin beneath her eyes. He's seen the same on countless men this morning, all dragging their feet as they joined the food lines. His hand finds one of hers, unsurprised by the cool feel of her skin beneath his touch. "How about you eat some and then head off to the corner for some rest? Can't do with my best boy at half mast."

Brittany shakes her head, sipping at her milk. "I can't let you work alone today too."

"Ah," Burt waves her concern off with a chuckle, pulling his hand back. "I've been working alone my whole life. You think Kurt wants his nail beds turning black with soot? He'd no sooner grow a beard than so much as touch anything in my shop."

Brittany manages a soft chuckle, knowing quite well what Burt says is true. He's shared enough with her about his son that she feels as much a part of the family as Burt always tells her she is. It warms her far more than her drink ever could, simply reminding herself that he cares for her.

Though she does wonder why Burt is staring at her so… curiously tickled.

"Have I milk on my lip again, Mr. Hummel?" she asks, wiping the back of her hand beneath her nose.

Her sleeve comes away clean, her confusion only mounting as Burt laughs.

"Oh no, nothing of the sort," Burt tells her, still with that quality of amusement upon his tone. Brittany's brow creases, trying to place where his good humor could have been born. No one is happy this morning. Not after having to sleep through such a frigid spell. "How's the shoulder?" he asks.

Brittany rolls her shoulder, pleased to find it just as well as it was the day previous. "Wonderful!" she tells him with a grin.

Burt nods, smiling wryly. "Put it to good use while I was out at the cavalry stables?"

Brittany's smile falters as she sets down her milk. "No, sir."

"Well, I know my _table_ was sure put to good use," he mentions, mindful to keep the laughter he wishes to escape from bursting out at the sheer shock now painted in Bret's eyes. "Santana find it comfortable?"

"I… I," Brittany stammers, feeling very warm beneath her collar all of the sudden. She clears her throat, mindful her voice stay low as she tells him, "I was just helping her to sit and then… slipped."

Burt quirks a brow. "That so, Bret?" he asks, pursing his lips to keep the smile wanting to crawl across his face in check. He leans forward over the table, eyes probing as he asks, "You just so happened to _slip_ right into her like that?"

Brittany sinks further upon the stool. "The floor was wet," she answers, absentmindedly tracing one of her drawings atop the table. She steals a glance up at Burt. "With water. From the rain. It was real slick."

"And her big lips," Burt says, puckering his mouth. "They just caught you, that right?"

Brittany blushes, nodding as she stares down into her cornmeal. "Her arms helped some too," she says quietly. "And maybe her legs…"

Burt chuckles. "I noticed."

Brittany's head snaps up, a rush of words escaping her. "Mr. Hummel, I'm sorry I—"

Burt holds his hand up, shaking his head as he laughs louder. "Bret, it's all right son. Don't apologize," he says between his calming laughter. He smiles warmly at her. "You can't help how ya feel."

Brittany picks at the corner to one of her etchings, a crease forming in her brow as she ventures to say, "You don't mind then? Santana and I…" she trails off before looking up, wincing when she asks, "like that?"

"Why should I? You ain't doing anything wrong," Burt tells her, upset to find Bret looking so unsettled. There is nothing to be so anxious over, not at all, Burt thinks. It is why he reaches back across his table and gently pats Brittany's fidgeting hand. When their eyes meet he gives her hand a squeeze. "You don't have to hide these things from me, Bret. I've known how you feel about her all along."

Brittany's eyes widen, panicked. "Does everyone?"

"Calm down son! It's all right," Burt tells her, standing from his stool to come stand beside his charge. He puts an arm around her shoulders, giving her a solid but gentle shake. He watches, relieved as Brittany settles back down atop her stool, giving him a small smile in return. "Her father is a right bastard; I can see why you two hide."

Brittany nods. "He can't know."

"I reckon that's for the best too," Burt sighs, moving back to his stool. He's pleased to see Bret relaxing some more, at the very least picking the cup of milk back up. "You two are more than welcome to my tent," he tells her and when she gives him the slightest bit of a smile in return he can't help as his own turns playful once more. "Though do mind the table, it's about as old as me and twice as worn. Wouldn't want Miss Santana having to visit her own hospital."

Brittany finds herself blushing again, nodding sharply as she tells him quietly, "Thank you."

Burt finishes his breakfast much sooner than Brittany but remains at the table, their talk turning to the day's chores, with the occasional mentions of Santana thrown in for good measure. Burt loves how Bret's eyes seem to brighten upon mention of the doctor, just as they did all those weeks ago when the boy couldn't keep his mouth shut up about her. He misses seeing Bret so happy, knows there's a lot he's had to endure and more weighing upon his mind. Mail has been slow since arriving in Hartsville, letters marked so far in the past it's impossible to gather what the present may hold for those you love.

Burt hopes Emily is faring well. He knows how much his charge cares for his sister. Tuberculosis is a tricky disease, predictable in its diagnosis but lingering in its breadth. He's known many afflicted, young and old. The young were the hardest graves to dig. He always thought of Kurt as he helped to hollow the soil. How easily it could have been him instead. Burt can't imagine what Mr. Pierce must be feeling. One child upon her deathbed the other entrenched in the throes of a brutal war.

He doesn't wish such a position upon any father.

 _They're a strong family_ , he thinks now, watching as Bret finishes up his glass of milk, a stain of the liquid dotted along his top lip. _Good people._

Of what the future holds for the Pierce family there is one thing Burt is sure.

Santana will be welcomed with open arms.

With that warm thought planted in his mind Burt catches Bret's eye, pointing up toward the boy's lip. Brittany shrugs, smiling as she runs her tongue over the milk. They get to work on forging sled runners for the camp carts. Brittany helps him to gather some materials, pausing as she comes across a few scraps of metal near the bottom of his bin. A smile works across her face as she plucks a few slender strips into her hands and gazes back out to the snow covered camp.

"Mr. Hummel?" she asks, turning to him before he sets to work on heating the bars in the fire. He raises his brows, gloves tugged tight on his hands. Brittany grins wider, holding up the metal. "Do you think I could get your help with something? It's for Santana."

* * *

_**November 27th, 1862** _

After two days' time the snow upon the ground has hardened, the once malleable ice now a burden to sit upon. _A fitting end to my equally fitting day,_ Santana thinks bitterly. _A_ wonderful _Thanksgiving_. Her chores in the field hospital this afternoon were as taxing, if not more so, than the day before and just as degrading. Her only solace came in the form of a fresh bread delivery for the patients, the most the regiment was able to manage in way of a feast for those sick in the tent. The aroma was a welcome change from the stale air inside the musty hospital. It isn't a sanctioned holiday yet; some men confused as to why they were being given such a hearty portion of food. Many were determined it was meant as their last meal and thus grew ever more depressed as the day pressed on. Santana helped to convince them otherwise, only needing to sedate one or two who would not believe her.

She takes the last bite of her bread roll and shifts, uncomfortable and exhausted in her spot on the ground in front of the that fire Noah feeds more dry wood. The flames lick at the offering, burning hotter as they slowly devour the fuel. She draws her knees up to her chest, shivering as she wraps her arms tightly around her legs.

"Brittany will be here soon," Noah tells her with an _unnecessary_ wink, she notes. Santana scowls up at him in reply.

"I just saw her," Michael mentions from over his cup of steaming coffee. He takes a few sips, wincing at the watered-down taste. He can't recall the last cup he enjoyed; every subsequent day without a new shipment meaning less beans for grinding, less flavor. More late shifts in the medical tent spent in a fog of fatigue. He yawns, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. He smiles blearily at Santana, "she was with Burt over in his tent."

Noah strums a few chords upon his guitar. "See?" he says, nudging Santana as he comes to sit beside her. "She'll be here right quick."

"I'm not worried," Santana tells him, rubbing her hands over her shins.

Noah plucks a few strings, the sound ringing loud and clear in the night as he leans toward her and whispers, "No, but you could do with some warming up."

Santana tries not to let his comment fluster her, but she can feel the heat upon her cheeks increasing regardless.

"Stop frustrating Santana so," Michael says with a chuckle, noting the glare she seems to be burning into the side of Noah's face. He hasn't a clue what the man has just whispered to her ear but knowing Noah he can more than imagine the words that have brought her such aggravation. "She clearly wants to hear none of your jests."

"Thank you," Santana tells him before shooting Noah yet another silencing look.

"Even if seeing her so exasperated is a bit fun," Michael admits cheekily.

"I hate you both," Santana grumbles, shoving Noah aside when he tries to slide closer beside her. He laughs as he moves to sit beside Michael, striking up a song she vaguely recognizes.

When he begins singing she can do little more than stare, aghast as he bellows loudly,

"Oh! Santana, do not cry for me; I come from 'ole Ohio with a guitar on my knee."

Santana lets her forehead drop down to her knees with a groan. Even as Michael joins in the song, occasionally bursting into a fit of giggles, Santana is mortified. She keeps her head tucked resolutely against her legs. That is until she feels a warm blanket drape across her shoulders and a familiar arm slide beneath the wool to rest along her back.

"Found you," Brittany whispers as she scoots closer to Santana, pulling the blanket fully around their bodies. She grins, "I love this song. There should be more about you."

"Evening Miss Bret," Noah says, mocking a tip of his cap as she nestles beside Santana. Santana seems to instantly brighten now that her better, and more agreeable, half has arrived. He can't help but smile himself, seeing the way Santana's cheeks darken as she steals a few glances toward Brittany. _Yep_ , Noah thinks, _she's more than smitten too_. "So then," he claps his hands before him, rubbing his palms together as he looks to each of his friend's faces.

Michael remains in a vague state of awareness, eyebrows rising even as his eyelids fall shut. Santana squints, clearly suspicious of any further comment that might spew from his mouth. But Brittany, good 'ole Brittany, is smiling at him as she always does, ready for their evening of songs to commence.

"You two look mighty snug and since the fancy footed doc is about three minutes from making himself a bed out here on this ice how's about we forgo the dancing and just enjoy a few songs from yours truly?" Noah asks with a large grin.

"That sounds nice," Brittany tells him, smiling just as wide.

"That sounds abhorrent," Santana says concurrently. Brittany stares at her, disappointed. "What?" Santana asks, rolling her eyes as she explains, "I'm not going to sit here and be subjected to the visual torture of Puckerman being roused by the sound of his own voice. Frankly, if I were given a choice, I'd rather listen to my patients defecating in their bedpans some more."

"Santana," Brittany warns.

"Excuse her sharp tongue tonight," Michael tells them, though he too wears a look of disappointment upon his face. His next words mitigate her sour mood though. "She's had quite the day beneath the field hospital tent. We both have."

Santana feels Brittany's hand begin to trace a soothing pattern against her back. "Are you all right?" Brittany asks her quietly.

Santana lets out a breath, nodding. "I'm fine, Britt," she says, meeting the concerned blue eyes with her own measure of comfort.

But Brittany presses further, knowing how apt Santana is to keep secrets, especially ones concerning her father. Her hand stills along Santana's back, body drawing near as she ventures uneasily, "Did he…?"

Santana shakes her head. "No, just stupid chores," she tells her, giving her a small smile. Santana nudges her shoulder, hoping to pry a smile from the lips now so close to her own. "I swear it Brittany, I'm more than all right. Hearty Thanksgiving-day to you."

"Merry Thanksgiving to you too but you were still just so…" Brittany trails off, thinking for a moment before speaking softly, " _mean_ to Noah. You haven't been like that in a long time."

"I know," Santana says, her hand finding Brittany's knee beneath the blanket. She gives it a squeeze, pleased to see the smallest hint of a smile returning to Brittany's mouth. "I'm sorry," she whispers before looking back up at Noah. "Apologies, Noah."

He grins and strums a few notes upon his guitar, singing, "We're right as the rain, you and I!"

Santana's lips purse, eyes hardening, her patience growing thin once more.

"Maybe someone else should have a go?" Michael poses upon seeing the tightened expression on Santana's face. "Brittany?" he offers. "I don't think you've ever shared a song yet."

Brittany sinks within her frame, the tips of her ears growing pink from where they stick out beneath her cap. "I'm not a singer, not like San," she admits quietly. "I can't ever remember all those words."

Noah shrugs, accepting Brittany's response and about to launch into a song of his own when Santana holds her hand up, shushing him.

"Come on, Britt," she bumps her gently. "I'm sure you know one."

Brittany shakes her head, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth.

Santana won't take no for an answer, not when she knows Brittany is more than capable of recalling a song, the same way she's able to effortlessly recall the steps to dozens of dances. So she begins to hum, the tune familiar, soft enough for only Brittany to hear at first. Brittany's eyes hesitantly meet her own, recognition flickering in the deep blue. Santana's voice grows stronger; Noah grinning as he gently plucks the accompanying chords upon his guitar.

"Sing with me?" Santana asks in a whisper, finding Brittany's hand beneath the blanket. She threads their fingers together, rubbing her thumb gently along Brittany's. The small smile Brittany gives her melts the last vestiges of her trying day.

Together they begin, "Should Auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to _mind.._."

Brittany scrunches her nose as her voice cracks, smiling sheepishly at Santana who only gives her hand a squeeze in encouragement and joins her for the next verse.

Michael reclines against the tent post, eyes falling closed as he lets the song carry him into fond memories. It is a favorite melody among the troops, especially as of late with their thoughts upon home and their wishes for the warmth of their families to surround them once more.

When he opens his eyes to watch the two he notices a change in their manner. A subtle shift upon the air, a familiarity revealed that wasn't there but a minute prior. Their eyes are only upon one another, tender in a way friendship cannot attest. Much the same way he knows he gazes upon his wife and she in return looks upon him. Fond, certainly, but also intimate.

He feels he's intruding upon their moment, a witness to something they've not shared with anyone...

Anyone it seems but Noah, who keeps the melody upon his guitar and watches them like a proud father.

The song ends, Santana's trance seeming to shatter with it. Her cheeks burn hot as she puts the smallest amount of distance between her and Brittany. Brittany tries not to let her disappointment at Santana's sudden change in demeanor show, knowing how ill Michael thinks of them as a pair. She glances up toward him, their eyes catching for a brief moment. She cannot make out the look held within his dark eyes; it is both inquisitive and troubled. Tired.

He gives her a strained smile and she returns it, uncertain.

"Well, now that the ladies have graced us with their angelic tones I think it's high time I am allowed the same pleasure," Noah boasts, rearranging the guitar in his lap. He doesn't wait for their responses, simply rolling straight into a more lively song.

Santana rolls her eyes in good humor as he carries on. She looks over toward Michael, happy to note her friend has reclined back against the tent post and looks near the brink of sleep. He deserves a good night's rest after the hell Dr. Lopez saw fit to put them through today. Woken at dawn to cart bodies to graves. A morning spent administering injections to the most restless of patients. Afternoon surgery consisting of nothing more aside from moping blood from the table and floor. Bedpans needing to be emptied and cleaned come supper. Not once were they allowed to tend to patients in the manner they've grown accustomed. Not once allowed to help a soul crying out in pain.

 _Thank god for that bread_ , she thinks now recalling her father's callous words.

"Let him howl," Dr. Lopez would say. "We haven't the pills to see to it they all rest in silence."

Opium pills she knows he is still pilfering. _Morphine too possibly_ , she thinks.

Her thoughts are interrupted as Brittany leans closer, warm breath brushing against her ear as she says, "I need your shoes."

The request must be repeated in Santana's mind before she turns, confused, toward Brittany. She notices Brittany's nose is tinged pink from the frigid air, her lips a might chapped. She wishes to reach up and brush her thumb against the dry skin, rub away the cold and warm Brittany in a way no outside eyes should ever be privy to.

She blinks, ridding her mind of the simple desire of a shared kiss.

When Santana raises a brow at the odd request and her eyes dart down to her covered feet Brittany laughs. "Not those, your other pair. May I borrow them?"

Santana turns to her, still puzzled. "Why, exactly?"

Brittany avoids Santana's curious gaze as she replies, "I want to knit you some socks. Like the ones I made for Piedmont… only for ladies," she adds as if it needs clarifying.

Santana stares at her for a moment, unblinking before breaking into a fit of giggles.

Brittany frowns. "You don't want socks? But it's cold and I—"

Santana silences Brittany's doubt with a quick squeeze of her hand. She's pleased to see a small smile pulling at Brittany's mouth and despite quite not understanding how the use of her shoes will help with the matter so tells her, "I'd love some socks, Britt." She can't deny how beautiful the smile is that breaks across Brittany's face at her approval. "I'll get you the boots tomorrow."

Their time together ends after a few more songs and a dance Brittany is able to coerce from the lethargic Michael and Santana. Afterwards Santana bids everyone goodnight, wishing to return to her cabin and grant her body the sleep it so desperately craves.

But Brittany moves to stand with her, asking, "Can I walk you back?"

"No, I should go alone," Santana tells her, and quieter adds, "He's been in there since supper. I don't want him to see you."

Michael notices the subtleness of the dejection upon Brittany's features as she sits back down beside him. He leans over, watching as Santana walks away. "I'll follow her," he tells Brittany. "Make sure everything is all right."

He's grinning at her warmly, all traces of his earlier unnerving inquisitiveness gone in favor of the friend she's come to know. Brittany smiles at him, "Thank you, Michael."

He gives her a nod before picking himself up to his feet and heading off into the night after Santana.

Once he's gone from sight Brittany breathes easier. Michael will ensure Santana is well. As she helps Noah to extinguish the fire a thought strikes her.

"Noah?" she asks, smiling, feeling far more hopeful than she has all evening. He turns to her, chuckling upon seeing the exuberant expression upon her face. "Could you help me with something? It's for Santana."

* * *

Michael catches up to Santana quickly, her pace slow through the old snow. He can't help but note she seems to be lagging in her usual confident strides, something he knows he cannot attest to the ice. She's purposely delaying her return, he thinks as he comes up beside her.

"I'm a grown woman," Santana tells him, turning her attention upon him with a smirk. "I think that qualifies me to walk back to my cabin sans escort."

"Consider me peace of mind then," he replies, chuckling. "For Brittany that is."

Santana's expression softens. "Did she ask you?"

"No, she didn't have to," Michael tells her. "She's much easier to read than you."

Santana stops, staring at him from below a furrowed brow. What could he have seen upon her face?

"Are you all right?" he asks.

She resumes walking, and Michael notes, briskly. "I'm fine."

He decides to press his luck. "I noticed something strange tonight, between you and her."

Santana steps quicken. "Of course you did. I'm _strangely_ exhausted."

"Santana, stop," Michael pleads, grabbing hold of her arm. "I know you're exhausted. We've both been through an ordeal of a day."

"Then what is it you mean to say to me?"

"Santana… I'm not blind," Michael tells her, voice but a whisper in the cool air. "What you two share is beyond any friendship I've ever seen."

"Well, I can't see how you could think otherwise since I've told you that's all we are," Santana tells him curtly and moves to step away but he holds tight to her arm, keeping her in place before him.

"I know and I trust you," he tells her, letting go of her arm with a sigh and a muttered apology. He knows she's still keeping something from him, can see it in the flash of panic that crossed her eyes. But he will not pry, not in matters private to her and ones that he's still unable to comprehend. Instead his gaze moves past her shoulder, over toward her cabin where he can see the glow of candlelight cast out from the window. "He's in there, isn't he?"

Santana spares a look over her shoulder and lets out a groan. "It would seem so."

"Will you be all right?" Michael asks, the hand he lays upon her shoulder this time gentle, concerned.

Santana gives him a dry smile. "I wish everyone would cease asking me that," she tells him. "But yes, I'll be _all right_."

"I saw him today," Michael says, lowering his voice once more as he leans toward her. "He was taking some opium from the reserves."

Santana's jaw tightens. "How much?"

"Far more than the dosage needed for simply one patient," Michael replies, pointed.

She nods. "Thank you."

"Whatever is happening with him please," he begins to say, bending so as to be eyelevel with her. _"Please_ take care, Santana,"

"I am," she tells him, the grin she gives poised. "And do get some sleep, Michael."

"I'll try," he says, squeezing her arm before he lets go. "Good night."

She wishes him the same, her steps far more determined as she strides away and disappears inside the cabin. He waits a moment, listening for the argument he is sure will unfold. He doesn't know how long he stands out there in the cold, simply staring at the window, but when it becomes apparent all is well, he makes his way back toward his tent.

His sleep that night is disturbed, dreams filled with images of his daughter's blurred face and others with bodies entwined in darkness beneath wool blankets. The briefest flashes of blonde and black hair unforgettable.

Unnerving.

* * *

The second time it snows is on the eve of the new month. When Brittany awakes, her bones chilled to the core, to discover the layer of white now blanketing the camp, a smile breaks across her face. And despite the uncontrollable shivers that have taken over her body, she cannot wait for night to fall once more. Her teeth are unable to stop chattering as she slips on an extra shirt before buttoning her winter coat up high along her neck. Two scarves are tied about her neck next and she doubles up her socks. Burt reinforced her boots a few days prior, anticipating the snow now upon them. She wills herself to remember to thank him.

She's certain her toes will stay nice and warm and Burt is owed a good cup of coffee this morn in thanks.

…or the best she is able to attain at any rate.

With her spirits far higher than anyone else in camp she takes off in search of Shannon Beiste.

Across camp Santana wakes to her father throwing more logs into their small oven, muttering of the men he's sure will be stricken with frostbite after their morning drill sessions. It's a sentiment Santana shares with him, even though she does not voice her opinion aloud. Between those stricken with fever, the fifty some more still in the throes of dysentery and the countless others afflicted with everything ranging from syphilis to measles she dreads her day.

But she carries out her duties regardless, a reprieve granted to her midday when her father disappears for a few hours and she must attend to his patients. It's the first time in little over a week she's been able to practice, let alone allowed the space to breathe as she checks a feverish man over. Prodding his stomach with a few of her fingers draws a wince and a moan in protest. His tongue is furred, spotted with grotesque and foul-smelling splotches. She need not even examine him further, between the bouts of coughing and the rash she can already see peeking out from the collar of his shirt the soldier was well in the midst of what had come to be known as camp fever.

The symptoms vary between the two most prevalent strands, Typhoid and Malaria, but they share enough to be thought one in the same. Santana's seen ample cases of the latter to dismiss it now. Malaria is a summer ailment, only ever seeming to spread when the days are hottest and the air is thick with humidity. It has no place infecting men in such frigid weather and she'd never seen a case of it past October.

Typhoid fever it must be. This is the fifth man this week afflicted. He would do well in a few weeks upon a daily dose of calomel and the occasional opium pill if his stomach pains were to withstand. Granted if their shipment ever arrived and her father ceased in his madness.

She grins despite herself and the soldier grows perturbed by her excitement. Surely she can see he's ill. Practically upon his _deathbed,_ he thinks _,_ if she were to ask. _What has she to smile about?_ Unless…

"Is my prognosis good?" he asks, cautious of her answer.

"Oh, no, not at all," Santana replies, still smiling at him with that same intolerable liveliness. "You've camp fever, you'll be bunking it in here for a while I'm afraid." She grows more reserved, curious as she asks him, "why would you believe your prognosis to be good? Surely you've looked in a mirror recently."

"Your grin," he says, pointing up to her mouth. "It hasn't faltered since you begin examining me."

Santana looks at the man for a moment. Her eyes flitter over the snot leaking from his nostrils unchecked, the glaze over his eyes and the cracked dry skin at the corner of his mouth. _Disgusting_ , she thinks, _and wonderful_.

_I miss this so._

She smiles as she sends him off to be appointed a bed.

When Dr. Lopez returns she sets back to her assigned work, never once mentioning to him the patients she tended. He can't even recall the names of the ones currently in his care let alone think twice about the newest additions. He seems delirious, mind clouded as he sets to his tasks. She watches him, noting the way he seems to carry all the internal symptoms of a fever yet with none of the more obvious, and glaring outward. No rash, no limp limbs, not even a cough let alone a sniffle.

He scratches at his wrist as he meets her eyes, his gaze sharp as ever.

"Haven't you meals to fetch?" he barks at her.

And Santana nods, holding his gaze for second more, before heading out to see to her errand.

* * *

Brittany finds her late in the night, the light of Santana's cabin spilling out from the lone window onto the snow covered ground below. The door is ajar, Santana sitting fatigued and half asleep with her head propped up on her hand and desk strewn with open medical journals and notes. Brittany enters quietly, closing the door softly behind her. Santana's head turns languidly, her gaze settling upon the grinning courier.

"Britt," she says with a sigh, arm dropping to the table. "I'm sorry, I can't join you all tonight."

Brittany comes up beside her, one of her hands tangling with the hair at the nape of Santana's neck. She bites her lip as she scans the titles to the articles strewn about the table. There is a type of order to the chaos of books and paper. Many journals are open to opium remedies, others to diseases she can barely pronounce. One catches her eye, _scabies_. The term doesn't sound too horrid. Nothing she'd name a pet certainly but for Santana to be so engrossed at such an hour can only mean one thing. "Is someone very sick?"

"No, it's nothing to—" Santana pauses, a pang of guilt riddling her heart upon realizing how easy it was for the lie to slip forth. "It's research," Santana tells her, reclining back in the chair as Brittany wraps her arms across the top of Santana's chest. Another sigh leaves her lips, content as Brittany presses a kiss to the top of her head.

"About?" Brittany asks.

"About whatever it is that _he_ has contracted," Santana says, a frustrated groan leaving her lips as she realizes she's been reading for a few hours and is not anywhere closer to an answer than when she first sat down.

Brittany rubs Santana's shoulders, easing the tension from her tired muscles. "You think he's ill? He doesn't look it..." she trails off, thinking, her chin coming to rest atop Santana's head. "What do crazy people look like? Because I think he's that."

Santana chuckles, looping her arms up behind Brittany's neck. "Maybe I should be calling you a doctor instead."

"I can't be a doctor, San," Brittany says, voice small. "Doctors are smart."

"Exactly," Santana tells her, tilting her head back to steal a kiss. Brittany smiles as she pulls away, warmed by the spark of confidence in the dark eyes. Santana turns in her chair then, hands now clasped with Brittany's own. "And I think you're right. I've been sitting here all evening trying to find something, _anything_ that would explain what's affecting him. A neural disorder didn't even cross my mind. Perhaps a trigger of sorts set him off? It would explain the dependency, the newfound recklessness of self, God fever—"

"San?" Brittany asks, snapping Santana from her verbal stream of thoughts. "When you talk like that, real smart like, it's very exciting and it really makes me want to kiss you but I'm also really confused right now."

Santana tugs Brittany down gently until the courier sits squatted beside her. "You know how he's taking opium?" she asks, waiting for Brittany's nod before continuing. "It's unlike him to simply do it for the sake of indulgence," she explains, tucking some of her hair back behind one ear. "There has to be a reason and at first I thought it was something external, like when someone gets sick with the measles. You treat the sickness and it goes away. But if there is no sickness, and you treat it anyway…"

"Then you're crazy?" Brittany supplies.

Santana nods, eyes drifting over to the chaos the desk has become. She gives a tired sigh. "In which case I need to read some entirely different books."

"Not tonight," Brittany whispers, standing to her feet and extending a hand down to Santana. "I'd like to take you somewhere."

"It's freezing outside," Santana mentions though she allows Brittany to pull her to her feet. "Where could we possibly go without turning to attractive sculptures?"

Brittany merely grins, impish as she helps Santana into her coat and leads her through the door. Noah is waiting for them just outside the door, a basket tucked under one arm and a sly, telling grin upon his lips. Santana quirks a brow, her skeptical expression only growing ever more so as she turns to Brittany.

"You'll see," is all Brittany offers in way of explanation as she holds out her elbow for Santana to take.

They walk down through camp, past the outpost and into the nearby woodland. Santana remains close beside Brittany, occasionally throwing curious looks back toward Noah, whom only shrugs in reply to the silent question she poses and nods for her to face headlong once again.

It only takes a few minutes for the sound of the river to meet her ears, Brittany's grin wide as she bounces with anticipation beside her.

Before the banks of the river are even in sight Brittany comes to a stop, motioning Noah over.

"I'll take that now," she tells him and Noah happily obliges, handing her the basket with a tip of his cap. "Thank you, Noah!"

"I'll keep watch here. You both go on out there," he tells them, unable to keep the large grin from his face. "It's not exactly a tent but it'll suffice," he says with a wink thrown Brittany's way.

She blushes furiously, tugging on Santana's hand as she pulls them closer toward the river.

"Brittany," Santana says, struggling to keep up with her in the knee-deep snow. "Where are you taking me? And please do not tell me we're going for some type of midnight dip. I know you want to bathe with me but you do realize that water is about five degrees from freezing… if it's not already."

"That's silly, San. You have a perfectly fine tub in your cabin, even if it's small, we could fit," Brittany says with a laugh, brushing some dead ferns out of the way for Santana to pass. "There was a drought here all summer so the water level is said to be real low and what with how cold it is an all I thought it'd be good fun to try some ice dancing!"

Santana halts in her steps, refusing to move but a foot further.

"It's _safe_ ," Brittany chuckles, beckoning Santana with a wave of her arms. "I do this all the time back home!"

Santana shakes her head, feet firmly planted in the snow just beyond where the riverbed lies through a few more yards of trees. "I've had to deal with enough frostbitten cocks this week to dare venturing any further."

"Well it's a good thing we don't have those to worry about then, huh?" Brittany giggles, hopping back over toward Santana. "Plus we have _these_. I asked Burt to make them for us." She opens the basket, withdrawing from inside a pair of beautifully handcrafted ice-blades. Santana can't help but admire them, the skates gleaming even in the muddled moonlight streaming through the trees overhead. Brittany holds them out for her, her smile bright as she tells Santana, "It's why I needed your shoes."

"So I take it I'm not getting socks then?" Santana asks with a smirk.

"Oh, you are," Brittany says. "Right after I finish Ranger's. He was jealous of Piedmont's."

Hand in hand they wade through the snow separating them from the river. Brittany is excited, far more so than Santana thinks she's ever seen her. _This must be what she's like at home_ , she thinks. When she need not fear who may be beside her, need not care for the chores of war and the burden of being apart from her family.

Brittany's smile falls as her eyes scan across the flowing river. "It's not frozen," she laments, stepping up toward the shallows. She prods the mud with her boot, a frown marring her features as she says quietly, "It should be ice."

"Britt," Santana whispers, upset at the slump in the courier's shoulders.

Brittany turns toward her, exhaling a deep clouded breath as she says, "I'm sorry I pulled you out here for nothing."

"Not true," Santana tells her softly, taking hold of one of Brittany's hands and pulling her back upon the solid ground. "The banks are just as fit for dancing as the ice would have been."

"It's all mucky, Santana."

"Dance with me anyway?" Santana asks, placing Brittany's hand against her hip. "I don't think I've ever had the privilege of sharing one with Brittany Pierce."

"You dance with me all the time," Brittany says with a chuckle, nevertheless taking hold of her other hand and starting them into a slow waltz.

"I dance with _Bret_ ," Santana clarifies with a crooked grin. "And now I want to dance with you."

* * *

Michael watches from a distance as they dance. He'd been curious when he saw the trio heading past his lane, especially after Noah had told him the bonfire for the night would have to wait. Naturally he'd followed, suspecting to find them doing nothing more aside from sharing a bottle of brandy and singing to their hearts loudest content far from the judgmental ears of their more somber fellow men. It was a sentiment Noah had encountered on numerous occasions, especially after some rather nasty comments in passing from a soldier or two.

But that's hardly the case now.

He doesn't even see Noah with the women.

And they look more than content to be left alone.

His heart stops when Santana leans forward, her lips fitting so accustomed to Brittany's.

Michael stumbles back at the sight before him, his back colliding with the rough bark of a nearby tree. Snow cascades down the branches above, coating his shoulders and hair with a thin layer of frost. His eyes remain riveted to the women before him, even as he struggles to regain his breath, his gloved hands clutched against the tree for support. Through the still of the night he can hear Santana's voice, soft as it carries her song through the few yards of forest separating them.

The click of a pistol hammer echoes, grating and loud in his ears, the hairs along the back of his neck standing on end at the sound. He swallows thickly as the cold metal of the barrel is pressed beneath his ear.

"You ain't seen _nothing_ ," a voice hisses and Michael spins around suddenly as the owner registers in his head. Noah lowers his pistol immediately, stunned as Michael's eyes meet his own. "Michael… what are you doing out here?"

Michael's pulse is still far too rapid, heart working frantically in his chest. He licks his lips as he leans his side against the tree, steadying his suddenly limp limbs. He's never been held at gunpoint, the sheer shock of terror that enclosed his body now absconded in favor of debilitating relief. It's left him in the wake of a rather strong dizzying thrall, his mind a haze of confusing thoughts. He wills the double image of Noah spinning before him to settle, slamming his eyes shut to quell the nausea rising in his stomach.

He can feel his friend's hand upon his shoulder, secure and concerned. He opens his eyes once more, relieved to find only one Noah standing before him.

"Are you all right?" Noah asks quietly, voice barely above a whisper as Michael lets out a pant of air and rests his head against the tree.

"You put a gun to my head," Michael manages to say, breathless still.

"Sorry about that," Noah tells him, voice still hushed. His eyes search Michael's, hoping to find the medic's forgiveness. But Michael's gaze, even unfocused as it is, is directed just over Noah's shoulder. Noah knows whom he stares at with such astonishment.

Santana hasn't ceased singing.

"Michael," Noah begins to say, giving his friends shoulder a squeeze.

"They _are_ together…" Michael says, watching as Brittany spins Santana back toward her, the song upon Santana's voice pausing for just a moment as Brittany draws her in for another kiss. _She lied_ , he thinks, a flare of resentment rising within him.

Noah lets out a sigh. "Don't think of it like that."

"Then what am I to think Noah? _Look at them!_ " Michael exclaims in a hushed whisper, knowing better than to allow his anger to get the best of him. He pushes Noah's hand from his shoulder, stepping forward toward the women as he tries to put a name to the feeling stirring so profoundly in his gut. He motions out toward them, sputtering, "It's… it's…"

"It's what?" Noah snaps, forcing Michael's gaze back upon his own. Michael is surprised by the usually nonchalant man's suddenly hard expression. Defensive even, he thinks. "Sinful?" Noah prompts. "Do it look _sinful_ to you?"

Michael can't help but wince upon hearing the contempt in Noah's tone. _It's not sinful_ , he wants to say but cannot will the words to carry forth. A small part of him agrees, that yes, what he's witnessing by the river between Brittany and Santana is very much a sin, very much the depravity that has led to such a gruesome war. Yet as he takes a hesitant glance back toward the women he can't help but think he's wrong. He knows those women, cares for them without shadow of doubt. And as he watches the warm smiles spread across their faces as they part, the way Brittany so carefully brushes her fingers across Santana's bruised cheek, there is only one answer that's able to leave Michael's mouth, "No…"

Noah can see the struggle Michael's undergoing within himself and nudges the man's shoulder with his own, hoping to help him see more clearly and not through the eyes he knows society has formed. "They can't help none how they feel for each other. Same as you and Tina and everyone else in love."

Michael lets out a long breath. "It's not the same."

"It looks mighty the same to me," Noah tells him.

Michael turns to him, both befuddled and irritated by Noah's conviction. _It's not at all the same. Two women simply cannot love like that_. "How can you say that?"

"Look at them, Michael. You can't tell me what they have is any less real," Noah says and then quieter yet asks, "Do you care for them?"

"Of course I do," Michael replies, offended. _How dare Noah think otherwise!_

"Then what more need matter?" Noah asks.

"God. His judgment."

"God don't pass judgment on good people," Noah tells him, voice hardened once more. "They're still Santana and Brittany. They're still _our_ friends."

Michael feels a pang of hurt strike his chest at Noah's words. "I wish I could see things as simply as you," he admits. "Your world is a far better place, Noah."

"It _is_ simple. _You_ live in this world too. We love them both. That's all that matters," Noah says, smiling as Santana's laughter filters through the trees. "They ain't doing nothing wrong."

"She lied to me…" Michael tells him, hugging one arm across his chest.

Noah snorts. "Gee, given your enthusiasm I can't ever reckon why," he says, resisting the urge to rolls his eyes, especially given the guarded way Michael now stands beside him. "You really can't blame her for lying."

"I asked her again yesterday and she lied then too."

"Michael—"

"I _trusted_ her."

"Then trust her _still_ ," Noah says as he takes hold of Michael's arm and turns the man to face him. "Nothing's changed."

"But it _has_ ," Michael says, pushing Noah's hand aside. "You can't tell me it hasn't. Just look at what they have you doing for them!"

"First of all, I _volunteered_ ," Noah tells him, eyes narrowing. "And of course I would help to keep their secret safe, they're _my friends_." The word is spat with such reverence Michael takes a step back. Noah's eyes widen at the move. "You're not going to report this are you?"

"What?" Michael asks, baffled. The look of panic in Noah's eyes is all the answer he needs. He quickly shakes his head. "No! I'd never! How could you think that?"

Noah merely gives him a meaningful look.

Michael lets out a groan. "Just give me time," he pleads glancing back toward the river. They've stopped dancing, simply engaged now in a conversation. He cannot make out their eyes, not from this distance, but he knows they speak softly to one another. A small smile forms across his lips as he watches Santana brush some snow from Brittany's shoulder. "I don't think I've ever seen Santana look so…"

"Happy?" Noah completes. He chuckles. "Yeah, it's a bit jarring at first."

"She deserves to be happy."

"Even if it's Brittany who she's found it with?"

"I… I still don't know. I may not ever understand it but… I can see why you're out here for them," Michael relents, feeling far more drained than he's had in years. He manages a soft smile though as he tells Noah, "I'm glad they can rely on you."

"They rely on you too, you know," Noah whispers, looking back out toward the women. "Santana especially."

Michael nods for it is all he can say further upon the matter. He knows his sleep will be fretful, dreading the next time will come face to face with Santana. And as he watches the girls resume their dance this time, he feels less a sense of the loss he was expecting, instead a sort of demurred warmness. _Santana is happy_ , he thinks, wishing he could be as forthright as the man beside him. Blind to gender, blind to love. He's envious of such simplicity of thought. Envious of the way Noah accepts what he sees before him with an open heart.

Protects it as if it were his very own.

"You're a good man," Michael tells him finally.

"You are too," Noah replies.

Michael nods, knowing he's intruded long enough. "Keep them safe."

"Brittany's sworn me to it," Noah admits with a chuckle. "G'night Michael, we'll see you in the morn."

"If I'm not elbow deep in shit," Michael jests before wishing him a goodnight as well and turning back toward camp.

 _He'll come round_ , Noah thinks, grinning as he watches Michael depart. When the fuzzy silhouette of the man is lost to the darkness he turns back to the river. Through the trees he can see Brittany leading Santana down the bank, embarking on a stroll beside the river. He stays back, leaning against a tree as he watches them disappear into the night. He'll keep vigilant for wayward soldiers, leaving the girls to their privacy.

 _Though they really could just do with a nice solid tent_ , he muses.

* * *

Walking along the bank, Santana stumbles, Brittany's grip upon her hand tightening.

"Was it a turtle?" Brittany asks, as Santana shakes her foot free of the deeper snowdrift.

Santana squints up at Brittany, puzzled by her assumption. "A turtle? In this weather?"

"Maybe he didn't find a home for the winter. Like Lucy," Brittany tells her as she squats down to the ground. She brushes some snow aside until the cold dirt ground is all that remains. Her eyes flick over toward Santana's boots, a wry grin forming across her lips as she looks back up at the woman. "Your laces are undone, did you know?"

Santana bends to retie the loose strings but Brittany moves first, taking the laces within her hands and deftly looping them tightly around Santana's ankles before tying a neat knot.

"Clever," Santana tells her once she's standing beside her once more.

Brittany pulls her close, arms wrapping behind Santana's lower back as she presses a light kiss to her temple. "Thank you," Brittany says, hugging her near. "You're the only person that ever tells me that."

Santana leans into her embrace, resting her chin against Brittany's shoulder. "I miss this," she confesses. Moments where they are alone. Where she need not worry and can simply relax in warm arms.

"You don't have to," Brittany says quietly, leaning her head against Santana's. "We can be this way always. No one else ever need know who I really am, we can still be _careful_ ," she insists, pulling away but a fraction to look upon Santana's face. Santana's expression has grown tired, her gaze warm yet impatient. She doesn't agree. Brittany reaches up, brushing her fingers against Santana's cheek. "I love you, Santana," she tells her, eyes steadfast. "I'm so tired of having to keep myself from smiling when I see you."

"If _my father_ finds out, Brittany," Santana says, her tone low and raw. "Do you know what he's said to me? He's threatened to have you _sent away_."

Brittany for once feels the cold of the air biting at her skin. "Like Cooper?" she asks, hesitant.

"Or worse," Santana admits, voice cracking. She takes hold of Brittany's hand, imploring thickly, "That's why I must do whatever he asks of me and why you _must_ keep your distance."

"I don't want him to take me away from you," Brittany says softly, her own expression growing worrisome. "What if it's to an asslum and they make me eat moldy cornmeal for dinner everyday _without_ milk? I won't _survive_."

Santana despises seeing her so defeated but knows this is the last Brittany will ask. Until the day comes when her father ceases in his fledging power struggle, this is how it must be. Stolen moments along a river, kisses shared in the darkest of nights. "Then you understand?" she asks finally.

Brittany nods, still holding Santana's gaze. "I hate him more than ever."

"He's not here now," Santana says, smiling as the cups Brittany's face within her palms. "No one is."

Brittany lets out a light giggle. "I think you meant, _Noah is_."

Santana drops her hands, groaning, "Ugh, please don't remind me of that voyeur right now."

Brittany gives a tug against Santana's back, their bodies once more presses against the other. "I told him to look away if we got naked," Brittany explains, eyes darting toward the surrounding trees. "He's probably watching us then."

"Then who's keeping look out?" Santana asks, her gaze as well now riveted to the trees. She feels the prickle of eyes upon her, unsure if it's simply her own dread manifesting so tangibly. "What happens if someone comes?"

"Oh, we've worked out a warning call in case," Brittany assures her, grinning as she explains, "I told him to give a howl for one person, two for two, three for three, four—"

"I think I get it, Britt," Santana says dryly.

"Do you?" Brittany asks her, uncertain for Santana seems quite perturbed if her lowered brow and thinned lips are any indication. "Because for ten I told him just to moo since it would take too long to howl that many times and people might think it strange a pack of wolves are about."

Santana can't help but smile, amused. "As opposed to a displaced cow?"

"It happens all the time, San. It's a serious problem," Brittany tells her earnestly. She lowers her voice, gaze turning cautious, as if holding the greatest of secrets as she tells her, "They're not very smart, you know."

Brittany had expected a nod, perhaps a quip of Santana's own about the intelligence of those lumbering animals. But instead Santana grows quiet, her gaze softening the longer she holds Brittany's own. Her hand picks at a few strands displaced from Brittany's scarf, twining the string around her smallest finger.

"Someday," Santana tells her, voice low. "I am going to take a very long bath with you."

"That'll be the best day ever," Brittany tells her, grinning broadly. "Even better than that day you touched me because then you'll be touching me all over. I'm all tingly just thinking about it. Especially down here, goodness, if you touched me here San I think I might die. But not truly more po—"

 _Poetically,_ Santana thinks as she gives a tug to Brittany's scarf and brings the couriers words to an abrupt halt with a kiss. She can feel Brittany smiling against her mouth; the smallest exhale of breath brushing against her cheek. They stay wrapped in each other for a long while, snow melting to the river beneath their feet, neither caring that the water stains their boots and cold of the air stings at their ears. They're content to share in a kiss, languid and ever so warming as it is. Santana swears she feels the tingles Brittany described, low in her belly when Brittany's hand moves beneath her coat to rest against her waist.

And when the hand moves, sliding across her stomach before coming to rest just below her ribs she must end the kiss, her eyes darkened with want once more as she stares up at Brittany.

"I just want to touch you," Brittany whispers, voice hoarse. She presses a wet kiss against the corner of Santana's mouth, another against her jaw and a third below her ear. "Please," she breathes, shaking in Santana's arms.

"Soon, Britt," Santana murmurs against her lips, kissing her soundly. " _I promise_ , soon."

* * *

"Back late, _yet again_ ," Dr. Lopez intones, tired yet with a distinctive hint of exasperation upon his noticeably slurred voice. Santana closes the door to their cabin behind her, heedful to keep the clasp unlocked as she's done so every night since their dinner at the estate. She's not willing to be locked in here with his madness. And per usual she pays him no mind, simply shrugging free of her coat and noting the half-empty bottle of bourbon upon their night table. She hopes he's too far-gone to enquire any further into her whereabouts. _As if he cares for where I've been_ , she thinks with a roll of her eyes. He only ever cared to ensure she wasn't out with Bret Pierce and she knows better than to give him even the tiniest inclination to the accuracy of that suspicion.

"Michael and I were emptying some bedpans," she explains as she folds the coat neatly before laying it at the foot of her bed. "Do you mind turning down your lamp?" she asks as she sits upon her cot and reaches down to unlace her boos. She finds herself stopping before she can even touch a finger to the laces. A brief memory of her night with Brittany resurfaces, Santana recalling just how thoughtful Brittany was as she bent to tie the clever knots still secured around her ankles. Santana finds herself growing warm, a small smile tugging at her lips. What she wouldn't give to be beside Brittany tonight instead.

"You're thinking of _him_ again, aren't you?" Dr. Lopez grumbles, flicking past the next page in his book with a little more force than necessary. His eyes shift, gaze narrowed as he keeps his attention fixed upon the page. Santana can see the skin upon his knuckles paling, the tension now coiled in his clenched jaw. He scratches furiously at a spot on the back of his right hand. "You only ever smile like that after you've been with him."

"Good night, sir," Santana tells him as she slips beneath her thick layer of blankets and pulls the covers up far over her head.

She can hear her father slamming his book shut and she winces as he snarls, "You've been _laying_ with him, haven't you?"

"No, sir," is her quick response, her back still deftly turned to him. A brief flash of panic seizes her heart before she relaxes, assuring herself what she's spoken is the truth. He has no reason to press the matter further and he's as likely to examine her for evidence as he is to set his own hands ablaze. If there is one thing she can always be certain of, it is her father's aversion to any type of prolonged contact with his estranged daughter.

She worries for what his continued silence now must mean. She half expects him to rip the blankets from over her body and strike his palm across her face. But she can hear his even breaths from his position still atop his bed and she swears she can feel his eyes upon her shoulders. It is much to her surprise that the next words he speaks are uttered so quietly.

"I know you think me a monster," he says, very much riveted to the curled lump beneath the pile of blankets.

Santana swallows thickly, curling further into herself as she mutters bitterly back, "I think nothing of you anymore."

"That's a lie," Dr. Lopez says with an annoyed groan and a roll of his eyes. "You _detest_ me."

"As I said, I think _nothing_ of you anymore," she replies. "Please let me sleep."

A few more moments pass, Santana blessedly thinking him to have granted her plea. Her eyes shoot open again as he confesses drunkenly.

"I never wanted a daughter, you know."

She sits up in the bed, sleep not soon to come. Her back is pressed against the wall, legs drawn up to her chest as she stares in disbelief over at her mess of a father and with a scowl tells him, "As if I had a say in the matter."

"A son is'll I prayed for," he continues on, eyes unfocused as they rest upon a spot on her blanket somewhere near her feet. Santana subconsciously pulls her legs closer. "So what misfortune I felt then when you 'ere placed in my arms instead. What could you ever amoun' to? You'd _never_ be able to follow in my steps, my practice would peri—" he hiccups, brow furrowing. "Would peris—" again, eyes growing darker. "Would _die_ along with me. All I've worked for, my name, everything. Gone with your birth."

As he quiets she feels her skin grow cold, a chill settle deep into her bones. She pulls her blankets around her shoulder, holding them close. "Why are you telling me this?"

He looks up at her, dark eyes flickering in the light of the flame. They're empty, entirely devoid of any emotion, let alone the vestiges of a human as he tells her simply, "I've no answer for you and honestly I haven't a clue why I am still speaking. Penance? The bourbon, perhaps?" he motions drunkenly toward the bottle. Santana notices a letter also crumbled beside the bottle. "Your mother wrote," he explains as he catches where her attention has settled.

Santana looks up at him, eyes narrowing. "I care not."

He knows better than to believe her lie. "She misses you," he says, for once revealing to her the truth. _Well, in not so many words anyway_ , he thinks. His wife misses the routine of her life, the parading of their daughter and all the insipidness that entails. He's entirely sure she's gone mad by now with no company to keep and no prospects to flaunt Santana about for. Though he must admit she's right on one account and thus says aloud, "I should have never allowed you to follow me here."

Even with his mind trapped in the throes of alcohol and veins no doubt clouded with opium Santana can't quite believe she's still engaged with what might be the first actual conversation she's even had with this man. She's still alert though, still mistrustful as she asks him, "Then why did you?"

He can sense her unease, it's plain as day upon her face, even as her face just blurred in his eyes. He takes a small measure of pride in being able to unhinge her so. "I knew you'd be of use to me," he explains, turning his gaze to the slanted roof. There are a few loose nails sticking out from the slats, evidence of the shoddy construction. He scowls up at them, thinking them much the same as the useless staff assigned in the field hospital. "You've seen the incompetence in those nurses, let alone the slippery fingers of some of the medics," he tells her. "I needed a hand I could trust to remain steady, a mind I knew would keep focus."

"If this is your way of apologizing—" Santana begins to say, vexed.

But Dr. Lopez snaps his attention back to her, silencing her words upon her tongue at his look as he spits out, "I've _nothing_ to apologize for. Do not confuse my words for some type of veiled plea for forgiveness. You've forfeited my name."

Santana lets out a snort. "Then what are you saying? Why bother with me at all? Why _keep me here if you hate me so_?"

"As I said, I can't have you off with Pierce. Word spreads faster in this camp than the dysentery now rampant in the field hospital," he says, very much ignoring the heated glare she sends his way as he does. When he meets her gaze he tries very hard to keep his mind sober, stare penetrating as he hisses, "I _won't_ have your actions reflecting badly upon my character."

"I'd say your actions are the ones under more scrutiny," Santana bites back. "Michael saw you today, taking more vials."

She can hear the growl in his voice as he retorts, "I believe you were told to hold your tongue on that matter."

"You may have power over me but don't doubt a man like Michael won't see to what's right," she says heatedly, growing far more confident in her words. Enough to demand of him, "What are you using them for and on that matter why do you keep stealing to the chapel so late in the night?"

Dr. Lopez's once calm expression tightens, eyes widening ever so slightly upon her second question. He hadn't expected her to find out, or anyone really, about his nightly visits to the church. If there was anything good to come from being so near a town such as Hartsville it was the solid foundations of a house of God. Somewhere even he could escape to clear his mind and pray for deliverance from the sickness upon his hands. But he cannot speak such to Santana, not with her eyes boring into the side of his face with such scrutiny. She never did miss anything, so sharp her mind. And he's quite aware just how unsavory the sentiments are that the Chinaman holds for him. He'll indulge her with an answer and hopes his tone keeps her from pressing further upon the matter.

"I can't speak my prayers here, not with you hovering about," he mutters hotly. "As for the opium, it is for a pain I've sustained. I believe a hernia has formed in my lower back."

And of course, he thinks, when she stares at him with eyes narrowed in disbelief. "You don't walk like a man would with such an affliction."

Dr. Lopez lets out an exasperated groan. " _Hence_ the copious amounts of opium in my possession. I feel nothing most days," he tells her impatiently. She squints at him more and Dr. Lopez can only roll his eyes in response. "You obviously don't believe me though."

"I'm not a fool," she tells him simply.

He smirks. "That you are not," he says, accompanied by a light and chilling chuckle.

Santana bristles beneath her blankets, hugging the coverings close to her chest.

Dr. Lopez stares at her for a moment, quieting as he studies her face. He doesn't think he's ever taken the opportunity to do so, not like other fathers would. He doesn't ever recall standing over her crib, watching her sleep, nor years later checking upon her at night when the house was quiet and still. She's grown right before his eyes and yet all at once not at all. He can't even recall what she looked like as a child let alone even a few months prior. _Surely far more well fed than she is now_ is all he can manage to think for a moment. He feels a pang of loss for having not kept the memories but he also feels it arbitrary.

He never wanted her.

And yet there she sits, existing despite his prayers and wishes.

He watches her shift uncomfortably beneath his gaze, her eyes hardening in reaction. _She's so very much her mother_ , he realizes now. The lighter complexion, the long lashes, the full cheeks. All except in the eyes, dark brown just like his own. _The very best in both of us_ , he thinks. _And yet entirely not at all_. Something far different. Not better, per say, he'd never admit to that. But distinctive.

He can't help but think aloud, "Any other man would be glad to have a daughter like you. Proud even," he adds as an afterthought and Santana is shocked to note, almost considerately. She can see his eyes clouding, the liquor and opium taking grasp of his facilities. Yet his gaze remains sharp despite as he tells her, "You've certainty exceeded all my expectations."

"There was a time I would have given anything to hear those words from you," she tells him, voice thick with emotion. He gives a nod, scratching at the back of his hand once more. The next words Santana speaks are full of conviction, her tone bitter and callous. "But you're hardly a man worth esteeming anymore."

Dr. Lopez lets out a rumble of dissatisfied noise from deep within his throat, eyes sharpening to a glare as he asks, "You're denying me the respect you promised?"

"I promised to _show_ you respect," Santana tells him, staunch. "And from what I've been told I'm a fine actress."

They stare at one another, both unfaltering in their angered glares. Santana knows she's spoken out of turn, knows she very well could have just placed Brittany upon a list for the next caravan south. But she will not show him just how terrified she is of such a fate. She is not afraid of him, not anymore. So she must keep herself from releasing her held breath as her father breaks their stare first and leans toward the small table between their cots.

He turns down the lamp, plunging the room into darkness save for the soft glow of the embers still crackling in their stove. "Good night, Santana."

And Santana buries herself deep into her cot, shivering and confused as she mutters back, "Good night, _sir_."


	14. Her

She was seven, perhaps eight, when her father first struck her. At least that is the first time she remembers it happening; a sharp recollection of pain in contrast to the rest of her desolate childhood. Even now, the memory causes a prickling sensation to spread across her left cheek. Through his own negligence she'd gotten into his medical kit and taken out his roll of bandages. It was custom for him, upon arriving home, to tuck it away inside his valise and then place the case into the cupboard near the hall door.

A place she was very much forbidden from ever touching.

But on that day he'd left it on the drawing room table, open and inviting as anything could be to the restless hands of a curious and bored child. Her lone doll was in desperate need of repair; though in her mind she just needed a good doctor to see to her care. Too afraid to ask her father for help, she recalls taking the bandages and wrapping them entirely about her doll until there was nothing left save for a tuft of her hair sticking up from between the last of the wrappings.

Santana had no sooner placed a kiss to her doll's head and laid her proudly atop her bed when she was pulled away by a painful yank of her arm. Her father's eyes were the angriest she'd ever seen them as he stared down upon her. He said nothing; merely cut a path through the air so sharply with his hand that the bruise left upon her cheek was still tender even weeks later. She cuddled close with her doll that night, tears sullying the bandages. Her supper had been barred, leaving her stomach empty and protesting loudly in the quiet of her room. She couldn't move, unable to turn to her favored side where the bruise was swollen, and any touch upon her cheek drew the sting of her father's hand back to the forefront of her mind.

Her mother watched her from the doorway, looking torn between her own wish to soothe her daughter's pain, and the wishes of her husband, which in the end were tantamount to any regard she could afford to give. Santana wished for nothing more than her mother's feet to cross the threshold of her room and tuck the blankets about her as she'd done the night before. But her mother remained frozen in the doorway, as unable to move as she was.

She left after a few short minutes.

Feeling banished and unwanted, Santana silently cried herself to sleep.

She doesn't recall ever being tucked into her bed again.

Touching her fingers to her chilled skin, she swears she can still feel the welt upon her face now. Her cornmeal rests untouched on the table; so lost she's become in thoughts of her estranged father. She can't recall any a time he acted toward her as he did last night. He never once showed her such a side of himself, almost repentant in its starkness. A contradiction, certainly. She has always attributed contradictions to Brittany.

That thought does not stir well in her gut. For with her father there is none of the accompanying fondness and warmth the thoughts of Brittany provide her. At the thought of Dr. Lopez, she feels nothing but the cold of night lingering in the morning air.

Santana leans her elbows upon the table, fingers kneading a soothing pattern along her temples. She cannot make out what her father meant by his words, nor his actions. For once an argument has left her cheeks unscathed; his presence afterward not so much imposing as simply just _there_ … a shadow so to speak. As she continues to think of it, a sharp pain erupts in her temple. Headaches and her father always go hand-in-hand and thus it is no surprise to her that one has developed now. Considering how little sleep she gained and the soreness in her side from the belongings beneath her cot, she's surprised the head pains didn't come about sooner.

She's thankful for the calm the camp finds itself in; sure the coming bustle of the day will only bode worse for her aches.

It's a quiet morn. Most of the men are tucked warmly back into their bedrolls. Those who are carrying on their chores are now, thankfully, doing so with the added benefit of the winter coats they so desperately needed. She can see the last of the men lined up by the caravan of carts just down the lane, some unloading crates full of supplies and others gratefully donning their new coats. Her father will probably have her and Michael cataloging the medical supplies they've received soon, _and then pilfering some for his own gain_ , she thinks with a sneer.

But that is a matter to contend with later. He is not yet awake and the small amount of time she has to herself is waning with the ever-rising sun.

She is bleary-eyed, yawning into her bowl of cornmeal when Brittany finds her. There's a distinctive despondent air hovering about Brittany this morn, one Santana feels quite in tune to her own rather poor disposition. Though, in Brittany's case, Santana knows it's not borne of a restless night. She watched Brittany this morning, keeping pace far better than the rest of her company as they ran across the hillside during their drill. There was even a smile on her face at points. No, it is not fatigue that weighs her steps and mars her expression with a tight frown. It's something more. The sheer depth of her disquiet is prominent in dulled blue eyes. A hint of it revealed in the sharp line of her lips.

Santana's head throbs tediously and she feels her stomach growing nauseous as Brittany draws closer.

Brittany is only ever so upset this early when something has befallen one of the horses.

Santana hopes it is just a horse and not something more pressing. As Brittany approaches, Santana inquires, in as light-hearted of a tone as she can manage, "Did Piedmont try to eat one of his socks again, Britt?"

Brittany simply gives a shake of her head; her voice is small, verging upon cracking as she asks, "Is it all right if I sit with you?"

Santana immediately makes room, sliding down the bench so as to afford Brittany the space to sit beside her. Brittany does so hesitantly; her legs are unable to remain still, knees bouncing. Santana's eyes dart down to Brittany's lap, where tense hands clutch a once neatly-folded sheet of paper. Or more apt, a letter. The quiver she heard upon Brittany's voice is suddenly given reason. Santana's head pain spikes, belly churning as she realizes what news must be contained within that letter. Without bothering to look away Santana reaches over and sets a hand atop one of Brittany's own.

Brittany ceases fidgeting.

Santana need not ask who it's from; she already knows. Instead she ventures to hear, "How is she?"

Brittany cannot meet her eyes as she answers, "her fever came back... it's worse than ever."

Santana feels as though someone has taken hold of her heart, her chest constricting as she breathes out, "Brittany..." Tears begin to collect at the corners of Brittany's eyes, her gaze still upon the letter clenched in her hand. Santana slides closer until their shoulders meet and she can clearly distinguish the few freckles dotted beneath Brittany's right eye. She tightens her hold on Brittany's hand. "I'm so sorry."

Brittany sniffles, sloppily wiping some of her tears from one cheek. "She was doing s-so _well_ ," she whispers, voice uneven and causing Santana's heart to twist ever more. And when Brittany's eyes finally do meet her own, the seemingly endless anguish contained therein breaks whatever ounce of restraint Santana had left. She pulls Brittany to her, hugging her close just as Brittany's sorrow begins to overwhelm her. "I don't want her to _die_ ," she cries softly against Santana's shoulder, clinging tight to her coat.

"I know, no one does," Santana tells her, headache a non-issue now as she tries to soothe the pain this letter has brought. "Your father and Dr. Nelson are doing all they can for her, don't you ever doubt that."

Brittany shakes against her, her tone biting. "It's not _enough_."

Santana holds fast, mindful of the meddlesome stares a few passing soldiers throw her way. Her hold upon Brittany does not waver. The glare she focuses upon the men quickly has them turning their attention elsewhere. This is none of their business and she knows they care not for Bret's tears. Their judgment is insignificant. She won't let go.

Brittany is so grateful for Santana's embrace. The moment she received the letter from the express carrier she tore the envelope open, giddy for good news from home. The young man must have thought her mad the way her expression faded to a blank stare. She stood, legs unable to carry her forward as she reread the words of her father, hoping she'd merely misconstrued it all. But she hadn't, and reading for a third time of how poor Emily's condition has grown left an inconsolable mark upon her heart. She whimpers against Santana's neck, her stuttered breaths hot against the doctor's skin. Comfort is all she seeks and she's so thankful for the care Santana offers her now. She can feel the slight tensing of Santana's arms around her back as she hugs her close, the deep fill of her lungs pressing her chest forward. The ghost of a kiss is brushed against her ear as Santana pulls away. Brittany grows concerned, not wishing to leave the warm arms.

One of Santana's hands slips to Brittany's waist, the other retrieving a spare medical cloth from within her apron pocket. Brittany's lips are still trembling, eyes red as Santana dabs at her cheeks.

"She wouldn't want to see you crying like this," Santana whispers, smiling softly. Her eyes lock upon Brittany's, cloth stilling against a damp cheek. "Hold hope, Brittany."

"I just want to see her," Brittany confesses, posture as weak as her tone. She touches a few of her fingers to the back of Santana's hand, her eyes closing briefly as she draws in a deep breath and exhales just as slow. "San…"

There is a silent question uttered with her name. A plea for help. Santana swallows hard and readjusts Brittany's cap, tucking a few stray hairs back beneath the brim. "Write to her, send her your love. That will help more than you know," she whispers, tracing her fingers over the tip of one of Brittany's ears. She wishes there was more she could do. She knows there is nothing more she can give the family, no amount of money that will reverse what the disease has already wrought. Her throat tightens; she knows that Emily will die. _It is only a matter of when_ , she thinks, despondent. Will Brittany receive the letter tomorrow? The next week? A month from now? Seeing her so broken before her in response to the news of a fever is torment enough…. again, she can't imagine the sadness that would consume her at word of Emily's death.

Brittany pulls away from the hand that rests comfortingly upon her jaw with more force than usual. "That's what you said _before_ ," Brittany tells her, obstinate, eyes narrowed with grief and frustration. "And she's _no better."_

Brittany knows it's not right to be so cross with Santana. She can no more cure Emily than anyone else… and she's always known so, somewhere in the very back of her mind where her thoughts are darkest and best kept hidden away. Where her fears for Emily's life are very much real, the hurt they bring more painful than any she's known. The way Santana looks at her now, as if waiting, wary of her inevitable fall, is all the affirmation Brittany needs to know those dark thoughts are more real than any of her hopes to the contrary. Emily is dying; truly dying. And she feels so hopeless, _so angry_ that she is here for naught and not by her sister's side.

_Nothing is right._

_It is my fault…_

Brittany wets her lips, her next words nothing more than a sigh of sound. "I never should have left…"

"Brittany," Santana says softly, leaning closer. "Don't blame yourself. You must believe she is doing all she can to fight this, to see you again."

Brittany stares at her a moment, thinking over Santana's words before asking, "Do _you_ believe it?"

Santana does not hesitate in her reply. "If she's anything like you then yes, I do," Santana tells her and smiles as she adds, "I'm really looking forward to meeting her you know."

The smallest of grins begin to pull at the corner of Brittany's mouth. "Pa said in the letter that she likes your name," she says and then looks back up at Santana, her gaze heartfelt. "She thinks it's very pretty. I really hope you can meet her, and then she can see how beautiful you are too."

Santana smiles, warmed by the admission. "I can't wait, Britt."

Brittany breathes deeply, latching tight to Santana's words. _She can't wait to meet Emily. Emily can't wait to meet her_. She takes comfort in the thoughts, sitting up straighter upon the bench. Something crinkles near her chest as she does, a soft rustle of noise.

"Oh!" Brittany exclaims, quickly digging into her breast pocket. "I almost forgot, here," she says, extracting a small envelope. She grins as she holds it out toward Santana. "For you."

Santana quirks a brow up at Brittany, puzzled by the strange post. It's not the usual envelope she receives from Hendrick; this one is stained and yellowed with age. Her name is scrawled on the front, the penmanship loose and untidy. She opens the envelope, withdrawing a similarly old piece of paper. Though when her eyes scan across the name signed at the bottom she can't help the large grin that spreads across her face. "It's from Sam," Santana says, elated, as she smooths the letter out upon the table so as to allow Brittany to read as well.

_Marysville, Ohio. October 17th, 1862  
Dear Santana,_

_I hope my letter finds you all well in Tompkinsville. I've been home a day and still can't believe it. My brother Stevie won't stop trying to look under the wrappings on my stub and my poor sister Stacey always gives such a holler in rejection when he does. I've missed them and their bickering so ha! My parents are still fighting tooth and nail for work and while they are glad to see me home I know the station my funds provided them all will be sorely missed. If only a circus would pull into Marysville and I could auction myself off for show. I can just imagine the roll of your eyes that must have followed reading yet another of my "horridly off-putting jokes."_

_How are you faring? Has Bret been keeping your dancing feet in shape? Please pass along my hellos to him. I'll miss his steps, the very best he is! You both will have to come visit us here someday. I'm fixing to get myself a harmonica soon and should be well and good at it by the time you all stop round. Here's to prayin' those greybacks figure out what's right soon._

_Your exasperating friend,  
Sam Evans_

"I'm so glad he's well," Brittany says once she's finished sliding the letter toward Santana, knowing the other woman finished reading long before her. Santana nods, folding the letter back up and then tucking it snugly into her apron pocket. She's happy Sam is well, surely, but more so that he returned home _safe._ "Will you write him back?"

"I will," Santana tells her, pushing her bowl of cornmeal toward Brittany who happily accepts the meal. "But not now, tonight perhaps. We can pen him a letter together?"

"I'd like that," Brittany says through a mouthful of food. "I miss our lessons."

"You don't much need my help anymore, Britt," Santana says with a chuckle.

"I know, but it was nice, you reading to me and all," Brittany says, sliding the bowl back with a thankful nod. "Emily always read to me at home. First night we're back you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to read _to her_."

Santana simply smiles, hoping Brittany doesn't notice the forced quality of the gesture. She's just brought Brittany's spirits up and would no sooner laud her father a hero than to speak words sure to bring back Brittany's sorrow. There is a chance, slim as it may be, that Brittany may very well get her wish. To keep herself from saying anything further Santana takes a few bites of her cornmeal.

Santana has grown quiet in a way that unsettles Brittany. Not to mention the three bites she's taken of her cold cornmeal without one snark upon its horrid taste. "San?" Brittany calls for her, voice hushed. She throws a leg over the bench, straddling it as she scoots closer and touches a few of her fingers to Santana's thigh. "Is something the matter? Should I not have eaten so much of your cornmeal? I know how awful you find it now without any sugar in camp and—"

"It's not that," Santana interjects, kindly, with an apologetic smile on her lips. "I've just been in a bit of a fog all morning. I didn't get much sleep."

"His snoring keep you awake again?"

"No," Santana tells her, the stirrings of her head pains returning, though dimmer this time. "I just couldn't find peace."

Brittany rests her hand atop Santana's thigh. "Why?"

"We had an…" Santana trails off, wondering how best to describe her disastrous evening. The feel of Brittany's palm pressed against her skirt does little to help, and the thoughts of her father now returning front and center to her mind only spur her headache more. She brushes Brittany's hand aside gently, ignoring the hurt look upon her face as she finally tells her, "We had an argument of sorts last night."

Brittany groans. "Santana, you _promised_."

"He was being an utter ass," Santana retorts with a snap and then grumbles, "I couldn't help myself."

"Did he lay a hand to you?"

"No."

There's a brief pause. Brittany stares at the side of Santana's face, scanning the knotted features for any sign of a mark. When she notices Santana stealing a glance toward her from the corner of her eyes Brittany's irritation flares. He did something to her and she can read Santana well enough by now to know why she's holding her tongue on the matter.

"You're not going to tell me what he said are you?" Brittany asks her, voice low. "Because it's about me."

"Brittany," Santana says, running a hand through her hair, wincing at a particularly painful spike of pain in her temple. Brittany's eyes soften at the ache creased in Santana's brow. Santana turns toward her, placing her hand atop Brittany's knee and giving it a slight squeeze in assurance. "I don't want you to think anymore on him. As you've said many a time he's a horrible man. He's not worth your thoughts."

"He's not, but _you_ are," Brittany tells her, firm. "What happened?"

They stare at one another. Brittany is unwilling to leave and Santana wishes the sun would cease its path higher into the sky. He will be waking soon; sure to pass and see them engaged in conversation together. Yet Santana knows Brittany will not move, not until she's been told the truth of what transpired after she left. She can see the concern, plain as the day, right there in her eyes. Santana relents; she'd promised to not keep things to herself any longer. "When I got back he was… partway gone, a good deal of bourbon and who knows what else. I confronted him, about the opium and his visits to the church."

"Did he say anything?"

"Lies," she spits out, recalling his harsh words. "Then he… he told me how any other father would be proud to have me for a daughter."

Brittany wants so much to pull Santana into her arms. But the small distance Santana has put between them denotes otherwise. "I'm sorry," Brittany whispers.

Santana's brow furrows. "Whatever for?"

"That you have such a poor father," Brittany explains, leaning her side against the table. She props her head up on her hand, smiling over at Santana as a thought passes through her mind. So she shares aloud, "I promise that when you meet my Pa you'll adore him. He already thinks the world of you. Maybe you can think of him as your Pa too?"

It's a sweet thought but Santana doesn't even wish to think about how they'll conceal their relationship from Hendrick. Brittany can see her growing withdrawn again, all her courage from earlier seeming to disappear the longer they sit closely beside one another.

Brittany's eyes catch on Santana's collar, lingering upon the torn fabric and missing buttons. The flutter of feeling within her belly magnifies as she stares at the reminder of their evening together, of what could have been had they not been interrupted.

"I really wish to kiss you," Brittany whispers, voice thick with want. Her eyes dart up, locking upon Santana's own. There is a similar need in the dark eyes, unwavering as Santana holds her gaze. She can feel Santana's littlest finger brush beside her own along the bench, the smallest twitch of a shock sent through them both by the touch. Brittany's eyes close, a sigh pushing past her lips as she pulls her hand back to her lap. She knows they cannot be so open with their desires, not out here.

"I'm sorry Britt," Santana whispers to her as she always does, her tone sympathetic. "Perhaps I can meet you in Burt's come noon?"

"We'll be fixing sled runners to the armory carts then," Brittany replies with a groan, perking though as she asks, "Can we now?"

Santana rolls her eyes, laughing. " _Burt's_ in there," she says between her chuckles. "I can see him, he's just _waved_ to us."

Brittany follows her gaze, to where, sure enough, Burt stands just outside his tent, one arm balancing a crate as the other waves toward them. Brittany gives him an equally jolly wave back before he disappears inside the tent. "He won't mind none."

"I think he'd notice us _kissing_ in his tent, Brittany."

"I know," Brittany says absentmindedly. "He's seen us already."

"W-what?" Santana explodes, red-faced as she stares, disbelievingly over at Brittany. "And you're telling me this now! _Brittany_! My god, by week's end, the whole of camp will know at this rate!"

"Stop fretting. He still thinks me a man," Brittany says, hoping to assure Santana and perhaps calm the fiery blush upon her cheeks. "He's very supportive of us together."

" _As Bret and Santana_ ," Santana growls.

"He could know us as we are," Brittany whispers, eyes flicking between Santana's very much still riled brown ones. "I'm sure he'll love us just the same."

"How many more people need know Brittany? No one was to ever have found out! It's enough having Noah know but if Burt were to react poorly..."

"He won't…" The way in which she says it, with such hesitance, pushes the fight straight out of Santana.

"He's all you have here, Britt."

Brittany shakes her head. "He's not. I have you, Noah, and Michael. I think it will go over well. He's not like everyone else San. He adores the both of us."

" _Precisely_."

"I'm going to tell him," Brittany says, resolute. "Tonight."

Santana feels her headache shant ever abate now. "I don't think you should."

"Why?" Brittany asks, none too pleased by the weary tone of Santana's voice. "Because then that's something else you have no control over?"

Santana stares at her a moment, fully accepting the bitterness dripping from Brittany's words. It is deserved, surely… but there is purpose to her concern. Brittany is surprised when Santana takes her hand and ever more so by her softly spoken response. "No. Repercussions aside, if you tell him and he _scorns you_ I _…_ I won't be able to bear seeing you hurt."

"San," Brittany reaches for her but the other woman has let go and moved up to her feet.

"I can't stop you, Brittany," Santana says, picking up her empty bowl. She purposely avoids the gaze she knows seeks her own and the hand she can see aching for her touch. "I don't want to be like _him_. Do what you wish," she whispers, relinquished, and leaves Brittany alone to her thoughts.

* * *

It's nearing supper by the time Dr. Lopez shows his face within the canvas walls of the field hospital. He speaks not a word to anyone, simply withdrawing his journal from inside his breast pocket as he makes his way off to the far west corner of patients.

After a few minutes he calls out for her, but Santana remains mute and unmoving, still stunned by his sudden appearance and subsequent productivity. Again he shouts her name, this time with less patience. Santana is spurred into motion, weaving between the rows of cots until she is standing opposite him between a bedridden and clearly pained soldier. The smell hits her hard, distinctive in its atrociousness. Rotten, acidic human waste. On the floor are a few small puddles of stomach bile. Ones she knows were not there just a few hours prior. The man is covered in a light sheen of sweat, shaking and curled tightly upon the cot with his blankets in a heap near his feet.

Dr. Lopez clicks his tongue, drawing her attention upon him instead. He's sucking upon a peppermint confection trapped between his teeth, staring down at her in contempt. "I need not have to call for you _twice_ ," he says, terse. Closing his journal he places it back inside his coat and motions with a wave of his hand down to the patient. "Abdominal swelling, fever, and as you can see and _smell,_ currently enough vomit upon the floor to constitute his condition a veritable problem. Prepare me a table. I need to drain whatever it is that's infecting him before it spreads to the others."

Santana gives a nod at the order, not questioning her father's diagnosis for it is obvious whatever currently ails the man must be examined. She's never seen a belly swell so, not once in all the time she's spent as her father's aide. But the look upon his face tells her he's seen something similar, if not the same, before. She has no time to question him about it, not when he's already shouting more orders.

"Chinaman!" Dr. Lopez calls as he sheds his winter coat from his shoulders. Michael approaches quickly, brushing down the apron tied round his waist as he does. He keeps his head bowed, eyes staunchly upon his feet as Dr. Lopez throws the coat to his chest and tells him, "This man, take him to my table. Afterward see to the _mess_ he's left."

"Yes, sir," Michael says, gaze venturing up and briefly meeting Santana's own. There are so many questions in his eyes; ones Santana notes seem nothing to do with the orders they've been given. He wishes to speak to her, but now is certainly not the time.

"I need to inform Major Keller of this procedure. I'll return shortly," Dr. Lopez tells them both, the very picture of professional poise as he takes off in search of his superior.

Santana stays, helping Michael to carry the soldier to her father's station. Once upon the table, the man having emptied his stomach a few more times on the way, Santana hurries to afford him some comfort. An injection of a small does of morphine quells his shivers and moans, his body falls slack on the table as his mind grows tranquil.

Michael watches her, anxious to heed his orders from Dr. Lopez but also needing to speak with her. He finds an opportunity when she begins to clean her father's surgical tools.

"Santana," Michael says quietly, helping her to lie out the instruments needed for the procedure. Santana never ceases in her work as she spares him a glance, waiting for his next words. Michael reaches forward, his hand coming to rest atop hers, stilling her from further distraction. She looks up at him only to be faced by a solemn expression and equally grave words. "I know you've been lying to me."

She turns away, pulling her hand free as she tells him, "I haven't lied about anything." She withdraws a set of scalpels and begins cleaning them with a fresh cloth. After a moment she pauses, giving him a wayward glance as she says, "Okay, except for that _one time_ I _may_ have borrowed your scissors and forgotten where I put them down."

"I found 'em," Michael replies instantly before shaking his head and speaking quietly once more. "But that's not what I meant." Then softer yet, " _You and Brittany_."

Santana lets out an exasperated groan, slamming the scalpels down to the table. "There's no—"

"I saw you both by the river." Any further words die upon her tongue at the comment. She feels her heart has gone with them, still as it's suddenly been rendered. Michael leans toward her and whispers, beseeching, "Please don't lie to me."

"I…." is all she can manage to croak out, eyes wide as they desperately search his for any indication of his erstwhile aversion. What she finds is simply a man torn, tired and willing to listen. "Can we speak elsewhere, later?" she asks him.

Michael can hear the hint of fear upon her voice, even as she holds his gaze. He reaches forward, hand wrapping around her upper arm. The touch, though firm, is grounding, kind. "I don't think less of you, Santana, please know that," he tells her, even managing a small smile as her gives her arm a squeeze before letting go entirely. "I just want to understand."

"Okay," her voice is small, but grateful; relieved.

"I believe I've some vomit to attend to now," Michael says with feigned enthusiasm. He gives her a wink and playful nudge with his shoulder as he moves to leave. "I'm glad to see you in here again."

And Santana smiles broadly back, for she too is pleased to be assisting once again, in whatever capacity he affords her. "Me too."

Michael leaves and not a minute later her father approaches, flanked by another medic and a rather staunch looking nurse. Santana recognizes them instantly. The ones he's used in her stead.

"Seems he's vomited himself unconscious," Dr. Lopez notes, eliciting a chuckle from the medic. Dr. Lopez doesn't acknowledge him, simply pointing to the floor as he orders of the man, "Clean this, now."

"Yes, doctor," the man replies, quieted as he hurries to gather the needed supplies. He tries to reach for Santana's pile of sterile cloths but the hand she lies atop the stack accompanied by her hardened glare has him backing away in search of another.

"They're merely rags, Santana," Dr. Lopez says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I won't need more than one."

"They are for the patient," Santana tells him.

"For what? The drool leaking from his mouth?" Dr. Lopez asks, scanning his choices of scalpels as he reaches to pull up the soldier's shirt.

From the corner of her eyes Santana notices a flash of red stained against her father's hand. Without warning she grabs the fingers of his right hand, turning it palm up. Dr. Lopez tries to wrench it from her grasp but Santana holds firm, pulling up the sleeve of his issued surgeon jacket to reveal the truth of his sickness. The skin is inflamed, an ugly blood-filled rash poorly contained on the underside juncture of his thumb and palm. She's seen this type of abrasion before. And she's plenty sure she knows where else he may be suffering similar outbreaks.

She throws his hand aside; no more disgusted with the syphilis he's contracted than she is with the thought of him wishing to carry forth a surgery in such an afflicted state. "You cannot operate on him," she tells him, barring his way from the soldier lying in wait behind her. "I won't let you _infect a patient_."

Dr. Lopez rolls his eyes. "Your utter idiocy is infectious. I've things under control," he mutters, pushing her aside and motioning toward the cart of bandages. "Fetch me some wrappings."

Santana does not move. "You know as well as I bandages will not stop your blood from mixing with his."

"And what do you know of diseases of the blood? Have you any idea what is ailing that man?"

"I don't deign to know all," Santana answers, still holding firm to her position. "But I know what you have and I know you cannot touch him in such a state."

Dr. Lopez advances upon her until she can see the short whiskers of his beard and smell the peppermint upon his breath. " _Remove yourself._ "

"You lied to me!" She exclaims, pushing him away with a hard shove. "How long have you been treating yourself? Those chancres look fresh. You can't be more than a month afflicted."

By now a few of the medics and, by sheer lure of the promise of gossip, all of the nurses stand just outside the partition, attention upon the pair. Santana can see them from over her father's soldier, her gaze leaving his for only a second but time enough for him to understand where her eyes have drifted… to the audience they've drawn. He steps up toward her, intent upon ending this before any more ears are privy to what ails him.

"They're already closing, the syphilis is passing. _This conversation is done_ ," he hisses out.

"But you have open lesions now! You cannot expose yourself to a patient!"

"Remove yourself lest you forget our agreement!"

"I will not!" Santana bellows, knowing she has crossed a line never to return. "This is beyond any of your threats! You're too blinded by your pride and disdain to see reason. You operate on that man and you _will_ give him your sickness! I cannot allow it!" she proclaims, chest heaving. She is not alone in her judgment, the very same sentiments now reflected back upon Dr. Lopez in the unyielding expression upon the faces of his staff. Santana's though, are prominently the strongest, her eyes boring squarely into his own for the first time since their argument on the veranda. He sees none of the bridled fear in those dark eyes now, not one ounce of the broken woman remains. Instead what stands before him in utter, steadfast defiance is a force even he is now sure he cannot subdue. There is no mistaking the look of repugnance in her gaze, nor the trace of pity held within. He doesn't know what causes his chest to pain more, that she so easily has turned against him or that she is so undeniably right.

Santana steps forward, her gaze never once wavering from her father's as she orders aloud, "Michael, will you see to it _Dr. Lopez_ is escorted back to our cabin?" Dr. Lopez can feel the man step up beside him, Michael's hands wrapping securely around his arm. Michael nods at her, proud. Her next command boils the blood already pumping furiously through Dr. Lopez's heart. "And then please ensure Major Keller is informed of this indiscretion."

Dr. Lopez's eyes narrow dangerously into her own as he feels Michael give a tug upon his arm. His vision grows clouded, muddled with rage as he allows the medic to pull him away.

He regrets ever allowing her to follow him to this place.

And he only grows more incensed knowing she will perform the surgery with faultlessness in his stead.

* * *

For once in her life Brittany Pierce is nervous. So much so she cannot hold down any of her supper. The small bite she took when she first sat down for this meal with Burt has already tried working its way up her throat twice. Thrice now, she notes as she grows queasy once more and swallows her dread down thickly. She's grateful for the snow that falls outside the tent, for she's sure if she wasn't bundled beneath her thick winter coat that Burt would have noticed the way her shoulders quiver and the soft knock her knee makes as it bounces against the underside of the table.

But Burt is in a proud mood, his usual keen observation set aside in place of boasting fatherly charm. He eats heartily, talking through great mouthfuls as he entertains Brittany with talk of a letter he's just received from Kurt.

"He's finally found himself a good lad to call a friend," Burt tells her, the smile on his face never once waning. "As much as I love those girls he's always about town with it's good to see him finally fitting in with the boys, you know?"

Brittany shifts upon her stool, nodding vigorously. This isn't anything like when she told Noah. Her hesitation then had only lasted but a minute before the truth came spilling from her lips. _My name is Brittany_ , she repeats in her head. _That's all I have to say_. She tries to imagine the look upon Burt's face when she tells him the truth. _Will it be like it is now?_

"They must have moved in no more than a month ago, I take it; the Andersons. Kurt has been showing their son Blaine around, getting him acquainted with the neighbors and all that."

_Will he smile at me as he's always done?_

"He says just the past day, from when he sat down to write to me, that he and Blaine had good fun with some gals down at the annual winter harvest festival."

_Will he still think well of me?_

"There was dancin' and singin' and so much good company! I wonder if any of them lovelies caught his eye."

_Will he still care?_

"Bret? You all right over there, son? You're lookin' peaky."

Brittany snaps to, trying her best to quell the uneven pattern of her breaths. She can't seem to control the capacity of her lungs, her body fighting for more air. She sucks in a deep breath, the chill air stinging sharp at her throat and a roll of shivers passing down her spine.

Burt leans forward over the table, brow creased with worry as he asks, "Do I need to fetch Santana for you?"

"No!" Brittany exclaims, eyes wide as she stuffs her hands deep into her lap. Burt's eyebrows raise high at her insistence. Softer Brittany adds, "No… I'm all right. Just a might cold."

Burt smiles over at her, relieved by the answer. "Let me toss some more logs to the oven then. That'll warm ya up. I always forget how much like Kurt you are. He's always freezing too, even under all those layers he insists on putting on."

As Burt chuckles and works to bring more heat to the flames of the oven Brittany pulls her bottom lip tightly between her teeth. She cannot understand why this is so difficult, to simply tell Burt, someone she loves, the truth. But she knows doing so will be admitting to the lie she's carried for so long, one that feels as natural to her by now as the skin upon her muscles. There is no denying that Burt thinks the world of Bret, that perhaps the father may even love him as he does his son. Brittany wishes not to see the heartache upon the face she's come to trust so crumble with her confession.

She would not be able to bear it. Nor the hate she now imagines would soon follow. The same Santana found in Michael… someone she trusted explicitly.

 _But Mr. Hummel could never hate anyone, not even Scott Cooper_ , she reminds herself as Burt sits down once more, giving her a wink as he picks up his bowl and slurps down the rest of his supper.

She steels her nerves with a straightening of her posture and a quick lick of her suddenly dry lips. "Mr. Hummel?" she ventures cautiously, eyes fixated upon the man's calloused hands.

"Finally found your tongue tonight, I see. Was afraid that Miss Santana might have swiped it," Burt says with a light laugh. He can sense something plaguing his charge though the extent of the troubles goes beyond his speculations. He hoped his more jovial of approach would help ease the tension he can see in Bret's jaw. At the very least ease the boys obvious nerves enough for him to look up.

But Bret remains wound up, eyes darting quickly across Burt's hands. It couldn't be anything to do with Miss Santana, Burt thinks. Those two had ironed out all the kinks they'd forged in their relationship. And if anything Bret is never so sheepish over matters of the heart. No, the Bret before him is quieted in another way. One he recognizes as the same softened demeanor he finds in Kurt when the boy isn't being as forthcoming with him as he likes. Burt sits back on his stool, his smile growing ever more gentle as he says, "It's all right, Bret. Whatever you wish to say, it's all right."

Brittany lets out a slow breath, eyes falling closed as the words wash over her. She wishes everything will be all right after; that they can still sit here as they do now, eating together and laughing over Kurt's silliness.

She cannot lose this. Not Burt.

"I just forgot to lay out Piedmont's saddle," she tells him, toes curling in her boots at the lie. She briefly glances up to Burt, relieved by the smile now back on his face and the amused shake of his head.

"All this worry over a saddle?" He asks with a chuckle. "Here I am thinking you've come down with the flux!"

"I'm just fine," she tells him, slipping hastily down from the stool. "I should probably go get that saddle off him, before it gets too cold out."

Burt wishes her a goodnight, even as Brittany fights back tears and takes off in search of the one person she knows won't think her a coward for walking away.

* * *

It's nearing nightfall by the time Santana has finished up on the soldier. A failed field surgery during a recent battle was never quite finished, a small pistol round still buried within his stomach muscle. The surrounding tissue had grown infected, a good portion of it needing to be removed or cauterized. The surgery was an absolute success. She can't help but beam with pride when a few of the more reserved medics give praise to her skill. Michael, of course, being the most vocal. There are no words to describe how relieved she was when they sided with her. She was worried, naturally, that even despite her father's affliction they may have shown loyalty to him.

She couldn't be more pleased to have been wrong.

She gives Michael a grateful hug and thanks each of the medics in turn before leaving.

Typically she wouldn't dare venture into their cabin so early in the evening. Especially when she sees the glow of a lamp inside the small window. The last thing she knows her father could ever want to lay his eyes upon right now would be her, but she feels if they are to continue working together – if this botched and threadbare relationship they've constructed is to sustain – she must say something.

She expects he's been waiting for her.

What she finds in their cabin instead is her father slumped in his chair, a nearly empty bottle of cheap whiskey held loosely in his right hand. His eyes flitter up lazily, locking upon her own, unsteady and glazed. It seems to take his mind a moment to place her, for he stares at her with a quizzical crease of his brow whilst she tries not to choke upon the odor of spilt alcohol upon the floorboards.

"S—ometimes," he slurs out, voice gruff as he stands to wobbly legs. "I think wha' my life would be… had you n'ver been born."

Santana ignores his offense and the subsequent stream of insults he spouts after. Her jaw clenches tight so as to keep her voice in check as she turns from him toward her cot and begins undoing the many buttons along her coat. The small room is decidedly warm, and her mounting exasperation toward her father only exacerbates the heat already burning inside her. His continued insults do nothing to quell her temper.

"You think yourself a sur'eon! A doctor!" He spits out a vile amount of liquor to the floor. "Wha' have I to do to rid you from my life?"

His eyes rove over the small splash of fresh blood stained upon her elbow. Blood from a procedure _he_ was to have overseen.

"You disgraced me t'day!" He shouts at her.

She whirls upon him, infuriated as she tells him, "You did that to yourself!"

Dr. Lopez lunges toward her, arm raised high. Before he can bring his hand down across Santana's face the cabin door is thrown open, his attention diverted as Noah rushes in past the threshold. A snap of cold air slaps Santana against the face as Noah shoves her father down to his bed, snow billowing in from outside quickly to fill the void of air.

"Is that how you treat your daughter?" Noah is shouting down at the pinned doctor, her father desperately trying to wriggle free from the soldiers iron clad grip. With a twist of his arm Noah manages to drive his elbow into the side of Dr. Lopez's head, the inebriated man growing instantly slack beneath him as he lets out a howl of pain.

Santana is stunned, riveted to the floor as Noah stands and brushes his hands off upon his sleeves. His previously hardened eyes turn soft as he finds Santana's gaze.

"You all right?" he asks her as he approaches, closing the door so as to not let any more chill air inside. He can already see the beginnings of the cold kissing at the top of Santana's nose, her bare forearms prickled with gooseflesh. He's unsure how much of it could be attributed to the winter air… and how much is caused by the man still groaning on the bed behind him. He leans close as he lays a comforting hand over her shoulder and whispers, "Britt asked me to come in. She's just outside, worried outright for ya."

"Tell her I'm okay," she says, voice still somewhat shaky. "Go, I can handle him."

Noah is reluctant to leave, his hand firm upon her shoulder. "You sure?"

Dr. Lopez sits up on the bed, his hands gripping the sides as he struggles to keep from toppling over once more. He motions toward Noah, a snarl upon his lips as he slurs out, "You beddin' 'im too?"

"You've no idea what you're talking about," Santana snaps from over Noah's shoulder.

"I've seen you with Pierce!" Dr. Lopez bellows, fraught to stand to his feet. "The way you fawn o'er that idiotic boy is-it's- you must be fucking him!"

Santana moves forward, Noah hastily stepping aside. He watches her come to stand, tall before her father, her voice strong as she tells him, "Unlike you I've retained my dignity."

In his mind, Dr. Lopez knows the accusation is warranted. It is the truth of the matter after all. He has brought this sickness upon himself, only his infidelity is to blame. But the tone with which she spat it at him; as if she herself is not partaking in the pleasures of the flesh he knows she must be… _with him_ , that boy whom is mocked so thoroughly about this camp Dr. Lopez can feel his own name being dragged through the mud. It should be she who need steal remedies from the med stock. She who need spend hours praying for salvation before God from this disease.

She is to blame for it all, for everything wrong in his world.

 _I won't allow it_ , he thinks. _I won't!_

Santana barely has time to register his movement, swift as it is. She feels the breath knocked from her lungs as he lunges up toward her with a primal shout, shoving her back with such force she trips upon her feet and lands sprawled on floor a few paces back. The wood is unyielding, a painful bed to land upon, her spine aching in protest as she digs her elbows into the floor to keep her head from crashing back as well. She can feel the scrape of the wood panels splintering, tearing through her sleeve with ease. But nothing pains her more than the sound of the door slamming against the wall, the feel of the winter air once more upon her cheeks as Brittany surges inside, the darkest of expressions etched across her face.

" _No…_ " Santana breathes, heart pounding as she shakes her head and she hurries up to her feet. Brittany cannot be in here, not with her father in such a blind rage. Noah makes a move toward Dr. Lopez, Brittany about to follow when Santana grabs hold of her by the wrist, yanking her back abruptly. Her elbows protest, the faintest smell of blood upon the air. Brittany's eyes lock upon her own, sharply fierce before their focus is drawn down to the blood staining the once-muted white of Santana's sleeves. Her gaze hardens, mouth pulled into a thin line at the sight.

"Get away from her!" Dr. Lopez yells, grappling with Noah for control. He manages to land a solid hit to the soldier's side, elation coursing through him as Noah doubles over, coughing as he steps back. He shoves the man aside, charging for Brittany.

Dr. Lopez is easily sidestepped, Brittany quick to grab hold of Santana and move them from his path. He smacks headlong into his desk, reaching to brace himself atop the surface before he may slip into the mirror. The desk rattles, journals and vials of ink shaken from their places of rest toppling down across the surface. His cigar box spills open, two syringes rolling forth.

One is already filled with a potent dose of opium.

His vision blurs, hands knocking the syringe further from his waiting grasp as the alcohol slows his impulses and blood pumps faster through heated veins.

With a shared nod of their heads Noah and Santana advance upon him whilst his back is still hunched. Brittany wishes to reach out, pull Santana back into her arms but the moment has passed, Dr. Lopez now turned around to face them. She can feel her throat constrict at the look of craze in his eyes. Unease pools low in her belly as those eyes stray, unfocused as they are, toward Santana's slow approach.

"Santana," Brittany whispers, hoping for the woman to halt. Especially given the syringe now clutched so shakily in Dr. Lopez's hand.

"Don't you dare speak her name!" Dr. Lopez shouts, brandishing the needle high.

Santana and Noah spring toward him. Dr. Lopez reacts upon whim, driving the needle into the first body within reach, Noah's eyes widening as the serum is pushed into his blood. He feels Santana's fingers take hold of his arm, the syringe pulled out not a second later. His eyes meet hers, clear for a brief flash of time before a euphoric rush envelops him, arms suddenly heavy, feet no longer feeling as though they are rooted to the Earth. He can hear the echo of a slap resonating in the room, Santana's cry of pain soon following. He reaches for where he thinks she may be but the drug within his system is powerful, drawing him further into it's comforts, his body crashing down to the floor as he loses all control over his now unresponsive limbs.

Brittany can still hear Santana's cry piercing her mind. And even as Noah crashes to her feet she has only one thought upon her mind. She reacts on instinct; her vision tunneled with fury as steps forward and sends a clenched fist straight into Dr. Lopez's nose. A loud crunch slices the air as he stumbles back, cursing and clutching at his face, blood seeping fast past his fingers. "Bastard!" he screeches, spitting more blood from out his mouth as he desperately tries to reset his broken nose.

" _You will not hurt her ever again_ ," Brittany growls, holding his infuriated gaze evenly. Their eyes burn into eachother's; Dr. Lopez's unhinged and shaded with hatred, Brittany's steadfast and burning. She can hear Santana breathing hard behind her and feels the rush of the fight leave her, her hand throbbing in the wake of her anger. She turns and lets out a hiss at the spike of pain, shaking her hand in hopes of suppressing the frayed nerves in her knuckles. When she looks up she finds Santana standing just a few paces away, pressing her palm against her severely bruised cheek. Another flash of anger flares inside Brittany at the injury but Santana is staring over at her with such a mix of horror and pride in her eyes that Brittany feels it once more ebbing. She knows she's done well and manages a smile at the corner of her mouth as she asks, "you all right?"

She barely makes it a step toward Santana when a foot connects solidly with her back, a holler of pain ripped from her mouth as she crashes upon the floor to her knees. Her hands smack against the floorboards, her body quick to catch herself from collapsing.

"No!" she hears Santana shout and no sooner does she feel the scarf around her neck tighten painfully. She chokes, clawing at the fabric as Dr. Lopez yanks her back, his grip upon the scarf ever strong as he twists it tighter.

"Let go!" Santana is screaming, tears streaming from her panicked eyes.

Brittany gasps for much needed air, feet scraping along the floor as he drags her back, winding the scarf into a thick noose. Her lungs are desperate for air, hands digging deep into the flesh of his arms. She claws at him, scratches sure to leave scars rendered into his skin. Her mind grows hazy, body fighting, legs thrashing.

She can hear Santana crying out for him to stop, see the last blurred silhouette of her dress as she surges toward him.

" _Let her go!_ "


	15. Found

At his daughter's cry, time seems to still for Albert Lopez. He can feel his wits struggling to define the present, muddled as they currently are. Through the fog his sight has become he can barely see his daughter; her body is an unnerved blur of motion as she rushes toward him. For the span of a blink his gaze sharpens and the gleam of fury in her watery eyes becomes apparent. He can feel every hair upon his arm stand to attention. She's hastening toward him, screaming. The raw sound rips through his ears, a vicious chorus of _"her"_ resonating in his drugged mind.

He cannot put pause to reason.

Santana just called the whelp ' _her'_.

It is unmistakable.

Such a simple slip of a tongue and yet all he can now perceive.

_Her._

Santana slams against him, her fists pounding frantically against his arms. He barely feels the pressure of her blows, his mind in a suspended state of delirium, ' _her'_ repeated ad-nauseum in his head to the point of faint.

 _Her_.

He feels sick. The sordidness and _wretched_ _implications_ of that sole word take hold of his reflexes and he releases Brittany with a sudden shove.

She drops to the floor with a smack, gasping for breath and clutching at her burning throat. Santana is quick to fall by her side and envelope her, coughing hoarsely as she is, in protective arms.

 _A woman_.

_Her._

" _¡Imposible!_ " Dr. Lopez snarls as he bends down and seizes the cap off Brittany's head. A neatly-tied blonde braid tumbles down over slim shoulders. His eyes narrow, rage exploding as he grabs Brittany by the back collar of her coat and rips her from Santana's arms.

"Leave her!" Santana shouts as he works to tear the coat from Brittany's body, desperate to prove his mind otherwise. His daughter has not been with another woman. God has not been forsaken in her soul. He is not being punished for her sin!

He gives a roar as Santana hurls herself into him, both of them toppling against the bookshelf. The air is knocked from his lungs as his spine is driven hard into the wood. Books tumble down upon them, a few colliding against his broken nose. He does not feel the pain, numbed as he's become to the sensation of touch. Santana lets out a groan as a book smacks against her temple, another quick to cut the corner of her eye. Dr. Lopez's vision is tunneled and focused upon his daughter as he regains his balance. He lands a hard smack against her bruised cheek and Santana is instantly sent crashing to the floor by the force.

" _S-stop…_!" Brittany rasps out breathlessly, eyes wide with horror as she stares up at him. Her gaze falls upon Santana, her horror absconding in quick favor of the ache she can feel coursing through her heart. _He hurt her._

 _She's to blame,_ he thinks as he glares down at the top of a blonde head. It is _her_ fault; the impending ruin of his life. His reputation has been destroyed; everything will be taken from him.

All because of _her._

Brittany scrambles back on her hands and the heels of her feet as he advances upon her. His fingers barely brush against her scarf when he feels his body being yanked backwards, mind spinning as he hurries to right himself. There's the quick shuffle of feet behind him, a scrape of metal against the floorboards.

He turns and there, standing before him with the empty needle brandished in her hand is Santana, chest heaving as she stands protectively in front of Brittany.

"Have you lost your senses?" he shouts to her, pointing wildly at Brittany who struggles to remain upright behind Santana. His eyes flicker down to their waists, to where he can see his daughter's hand laced tightly with that of _hers_. He's beyond disgusted by the display, stomach lurching at the sight and for a moment he fears expelling his supper right there upon the dirtied floor.

"I've lost _nothing_ ," she hisses at him, her eyes burning decisively into his. He wavers some under the intensity of her gaze; she's never stared at him with such conviction before. But he tells himself it's merely the drink in his stomach causing him to see so and squares his shoulders harder as he tries to match the heat of her gaze.

" _This is sin_ ," he tells her, voice low and edged with fury.

Santana bristles at the words yet only holds firmer to Brittany's trembling hand, her own shaking just as noticeably. She can feel the woman behind her, breaths still labored and pained. Ire rages within her at the sound. This is not how it's to end. Not with Noah barely conscious on the floor and Brittany barely breathing behind her back. Not with her father staring at her with such utter hate. Not with threats made from a painfully pounding heart. Not in fear. Tears spring once more to her eyes but she sucks a deep breath through her clenched teeth and holds them at bay.

Dr. Lopez takes a step forward.

Santana holds the retracted needle out further. " _You will not harm her!_ " she exclaims in a hushed growl. "I swear to you I won't hesitate to plunge this into your neck."

"You're an _atrocity_ ," Dr. Lopez scowls, voice unbalanced, the expression upon his face crazed. His cheeks darken; the vein protruding from his neck pulses fast. "Both of you, _this_ ," he motions between them, a sneer upon his lips. "God will see to it you're punished."

"He saw to it you were my father," Santana snarls, drawing strength in the way Brittany squeezes tight to her hand. "Enduring you all these years was punishment enough."

" _Get out_ ," Dr. Lopez hisses, spitting out a small amount of blood to her feet. "You've chosen where you lie. _Be in sin_."

Santana remains in her stance, unable to breathe as his eyes bore into her own. There is so much buried beneath the glaze of opium and alcohol clouding his vision. His hate is tantamount, as thick in his gaze as it is upon his tongue, hardened now to steel she is sure nothing shall ever dent. There is disgust, the same he's always held for her, but magnified tenfold. She feels not for his abhorrence and distaste, her heart as toughened to them as one can only be after years of such acquaintance. But at the regret… at the trickle of _fear_ she can see as his eyes dart ever so prudently between her own, Santana feels her hand lowering.

What little remains of their relationship is destroyed with the turn of his head and the step he takes backward.

Brittany tugs on Santana's hand, hoping to draw her closer. She does not trust that he is retreating. Her eyes are riveted to the way he steps cautiously over Noah. They need to get him out of here.

"San," Brittany whispers, pleading.

"LEAVE ME!" Dr. Lopez bellows, falling, exhausted, to his cot.

Brittany moves first, hurrying to pull Noah up to his feet. The soldier wobbles, a lazy grin on his face as Brittany throws one of his arms over her shoulder and hauls him up and against her side. Santana watches her father for a moment longer; his body rests slumped on the bed, gaze deftly fixed upon the stove fire. His shoulders rise and fall with forced, uneven breaths; the veins upon his neck and hands are more prominent than she's ever perceived. He's never looked old, not to her. But here, now with everything between them gone, she can see how flecked his hair is with gray and the deep lines carved by wrinkles beside his eyes and mouth. He's aged since coming to war. He looks tired… done.

" _Santana_ ," Brittany whispers, strained as she holds out her cap.

Santana lapses into her training and takes it, quickly placing it snuggly back atop Brittany's head before sliding Noah's other arm over her shoulder and helping to carry the man out the cabin.

She can faintly hear the cabin door being closed once they're a good deal away. The echo of the sound feels much the same as the cold bite of the air upon her skin.

 _It's over_ , she repeats inside her head. _It's done_.

She cannot stop to think about what will transpire now. Noah's safety is the most pressing matter. There was a great deal of opium in that syringe, enough for a day's worth of injections. Her only goal is to get him into a cot and have Michael keep vigilant by his bed through the night. Afterward—

Her stomach knots, heart thudding hard against her chest as insecurities begin slipping through her defenses. _And then what? He knows!_ _He'll have us both committed, kil—_ _JUST_ _GET NOAH HELP!_

His legs drag through the freshly fallen snow as Brittany and Santana lug him hastily toward the field hospital. Their quick breaths fog in the air, snow crunching loudly beneath their feet. The falling flurries have blessedly left the lane devoid of men, most now huddled inside their tents if not surrounding the large bonfires near the center of camp.

Brittany chances a glance past Noah's sagging head at Santana, knowing there must be so much coursing through the girl's mind. Even in the darkness enshrouding the lane she's stunned to find Santana's expression unreadable in its utter emptiness. She's a void of emotion, her eyes fixed upon the field hospital a few yards beyond. It worries Brittany, even as they manage to find Noah a cot and Santana pries Michael away from some bedpans, ordering him watch over Noah through the night.

"He's too much opium in his blood," she says, voice concentrated, clip, as she pulls some blankets high up to Noah's chin. "Watch his breathing. There's nothing more can be done till morn."

"Santana," Michael ventures, reaching for her but she steps away, quickly retreating for the exit and leaving Michael alone with Brittany. He looks up at her, brow creased with absolute confusion and concern.

"I'm sorry," she tells him, wishing she could stay and give him the answers he so desires. But she cannot leave Santana alone, not after everything that's happened. "I have to go."

Brittany finds Santana standing just outside the tent, not a shiver rolling through her crossed arms. It is then she notices they aren't so much crossed but hugged to her chest instead. A shield of protection against thoughts she can no sooner keep at bay than she can shield her skin from the wind. Without a word Brittany, takes her gently by the hand and leads Santana back to her tent, guiding the quieted and numbed woman through the darkest and emptiest of lanes. Brittany knows it's vital they not be seen, not by anyone. Not so it's easier for _him_ to find them. Not with Santana like this. Ever since setting Noah down it's as if she's recoiled within herself, no more able to speak than she is to blink. Tranced almost, like characters bewitched in Brittany's old storybooks.

Brittany settles Santana down atop her bedroll, wrapping a few blankets about her shoulders.

It's all catching up to Santana, the utter truth to what now will come to pass.

A small whimper of sound finally escapes her lips as Brittany hugs her close. "It's okay San," Brittany whispers, feeling the tremors finally begin to take hold of Santana's body.

"Britt…" Santana stammers, terrified.

"You have me. I won't leave you," Brittany tells her, tucking Santana's head against her neck. She can feel trembling hands cling to her back, Santana's body pressing harder against her front. Brittany places a soft kiss to the side of her head, hoping to ease the obvious torrent of emotions now overwhelming the woman in her arms. "You were so brave tonight."

Santana's next words still Brittany's heart. " _He's going to tell the Colonel_ ," she cries weakly. A sob pushes past her lips. " _Everyone_ will know who you are… _Brittany_ —"

"It's okay, it's okay," Brittany shakes her head, arms tightening around Santana. "I'll cut my hair, I'll do whatever it takes to stay."

"It won't matter, _nothing_ will." Santana is unhinged, voice cracking. "His word, it—he'll…"

"Shh, San, it's okay," Brittany soothes, ignoring the spike of fear Santana's words have driven deep into her heart. _If he is to tell then it's not safe here anymore_. "We'll leave. At first light, we'll go home."

Santana jerks away from her, eyes unnerved. "No, now; we have to go _now_."

Brittany cups Santana's face within her palms, brushing away the tears that fall unchecked from her eyes. "Okay, now, we'll go now," she whispers, trying to force calmness into her voice. _We're going home_ , she repeats to herself, drawing strength and courage in the warmth the thought provides. _We'll be home soon_. "Stay here, I'll get what we need from Burt," she tells her, pursing her lips as she realizes, "Santana, I _need_ to tell him who I am."

Santana holds her gaze, unblinking and anxious. She whispers but one word, " _hurry_."

* * *

Brittany runs, legs and lungs burning from the speed of her exertion. All she knows is she must find Burt. Appeal to him for help. Within the hour she and Santana need to be well out of this camp and bearing headlong for Lima.

_Home._

The lamps are doused in Burt's tent as she enters; there is no light save for the feeble glow from the dying embers of his oven fire. She makes her way toward his table. The silhouette of his mug rests atop, full with his steaming evening coffee. He can't have left too long ago. He is sure to return soon. Brittany busies herself with striking a lamp, bringing much-needed light to the dark tent.

Looking around Brittany finds herself struck with nostalgia. This is the last time she will ever set foot in Burt's tent. No more evenings will be spent carving stories into the table. No more mornings sharing mugs of warm milk. This is the last she may ever see of him…

Swallowing down the uncomfortable feeling swelling in her throat she traces her fingers over the edge of the old table. Kurt's letter sits atop, a half-penned response lying beside it.

 _He'll be here soon,_ she repeats to herself.

A minute passes, the hands of the clock passing far quicker than she ever recalls time actually moving. Brittany sits on one of the stools, one leg bouncing as she absentmindedly picks at the edges of her engravings on the table.

After ten minutes she grows anxious; she must return to Santana, she cannot wait for Burt a second more.

Plucking his pen from the table she drags a clean sheet of paper toward her. She'll explain it to him in a note. Her hand moves hastily across the page, letters as shaky in their construction as she assumes her voice would have been.

She barely fills a quarter of the page with her scrawl when the rustle of the tent flap startles her. She springs up from the stool, knocking the inkwell aside in her hurry. The dark liquid spills across her page and stains the worn wooden tabletop.

"Quite late to be penning love notes," Burt chuckles as he makes his way toward her.

Brittany ceases in her attempts to dab up the mess with her ruined letter, throwing him an apologetic look in return. Burt waves her concern aside. Brittany's attention is drawn down to the pronounced limp in his gait. There's a strain in his brow as he pulls out a stool and sits himself down.

He's hurting.

"Let me help you," Brittany tells him when he tries to reach for his mug despite the discomfort it must afford him. She slides it closer to him, her nerves returning as his gaze meets her own.

"No, no, it's all right Bret," Burt tells her, though notices something off in the blue eyes he's come to know so well. He attributes it to embarrassment, especially with the way Bret's cheeks and ears have turned such a vivid pink. "Old cranky knee is all."

"I could get you some warm milk," Brittany offers. "That always makes me feel better."

"I know," Burt grins, nodding down to the stool beside him, indicating it's all right for her to sit. She does so, cautious. "I'll be all right. Did you need something though?"

Brittany's lips tighten into a thin line as she shifts uneasily upon a seat she once considered such a comfort.

"Bret…" Burt leans toward her, seeing the clear state of distress in her posture. Her eyes are riveted to the table, unable to even chance a glance up toward his own. "Has something happened?"

"What is," Brittany begins to ask, voice quieted, stilling. She swallows thickly and looks up at him finally. Burt is taken aback by the terror in her suddenly pale eyes. "What is the penalty for deserting?"

"Someplace worse than where Cooper was sent, that's for sure," Burt answers, trying to gauge what his charge could mean by such a question. "Bret, surely you're not—"

Brittany doesn't know which would be worse; to be caught running and sent away or to stay and meet the fate her punishment would decree. Where her friends would see… Burt…

"Something's happened," Brittany whispers, choking some upon her words. She's terrified of leaving here; of leaving someplace she's felt so safe for so long. But Santana cannot remain, and Brittany refuses to allow _him_ a chance to seek retribution. _He will not hurt her, not ever again._

And thus, in a far more assured voice, she tells him of the events in the Lopez cabin, barely catching herself from revealing too much. She doesn't want his judgment clouded yet by that truth. Burt listens, sympathetic, flares of anger rising in his eyes and in those moments Brittany knows his care for her is most evident. He will help them.

She doesn't fear telling him any longer.

"I can see why she'd want to go," Burt says once she's finished speaking, his expression thoughtful. "If you wish to help Santana leave I'll assist in any way I can."

Brittany draws in a long breath. "I don't want just Santana to go," she says, standing up to her feet and slipping the cap from off her head. "I'm to go with her."

At first he wishes to let out a chuckle. Bret sure kept his hair long. _Kurt would be envious of such color and sheen_ , he muses. But as Brittany remains standing, wringing the cap between her hands and staring at him expectantly, waiting for him to grasp what this moment means, it finally dawns upon him who it is that now stands before him.

"You're…I can't believe," Burt struggles to find the words, gaze traveling across Brittany's features, seeing the obvious, _glaring,_ femininity in the slant of her eyes, and the long slope of her neck. He explodes up to his feet, cringing when his knee protests as he exclaims the first thought upon his mind, "Whatever were you thinking?"

"Coming here was the only way Emily would get well!" Brittany tells him, earnest as she reaches for him, hoping to guide him back down to his chair. Burt swats her hands aside, moving from the table. Brittany is not deterred as she follows him across the tent. "I needed to take my father's place. You must understand, you took Kurt's."

Burt spins on his heels, wincing at the pull in his knee as he tells her hotly, "That's entirely different! He'd die out in those fields!"

"And Emily would die if I were to have stayed!" Brittany counters, her heart throbbing in her chest. She steps back, so angry at herself for shouting and so frustrated that Burt has shattered all her imaginings of this moment. She didn't think he would ever spurn her… not like this. "I don't…" Brittany whispers, letting her body fall down atop a stool. "I don't know how to care for her, not like my Pa. And we _needed_ this money for her medicine...but that…just please Mr. Hummel," she pleads, gazing at him from eyes filled with tears. " _Please_ understand."

"You're helping no one being here," Burt tells her, maintaining his breadth of distance from her. He crosses his arms over his chest, tucking curled fists deep into the groove of his elbows. He can't believe he's been so blind.

Brittany watches him for a moment, her expression growing forlorn as she tells him meekly. "I help you."

The tone of her voice, so broken, pulls at Burt's heart. She has been of help, he knows, more help to him than he can imagine any other man assigned could have done. But she doesn't belong here; no woman ever belongs at war. She should be at home, kept safe under the watch of her father, far from the gore of battle and the ever more pressing troubles of men confined to such close quarters.

It's no wonder she was once so tormented.

He steps closer, tone soft as he asks, "What's your name?"

"Brittany," she answers just as quietly. "Brittany S. Pierce. Will you help us?"

Burt purses his lips as another question, this one more significant, comes to mind. "And who holds affections for Santana?" he asks. "Brittany or Bret?"

Brittany hesitates before replying, so fearful of being shunned twice. But Burt is staring at her with a mix of patience and apprehension. It's confusing; too conflicting. Her answer is simple, "I do."

Burt lets out a strangled noise, nearly a groan, as he turns from her once more.

"Please don't leave!" Brittany calls out to him once she realizes he's making headway straight for the tent exit.

"You're in love with a woman! _As a woman_! I can't… I cannot in good conscience help you with this," Burt sighs out finally, one hand upon the tent flap. "You should never have told me. Let me have stayed an ignorant old man."

"You deserve the truth," Brittany tells him, too afraid of him walking out of the tent and then undoubtedly out of her life. _He can't go_. She moves down from the stool, making slow, pronounced steps toward him. Burt remains torn between seeking the comfort of his dreams and remaining to hear this woman's appeal. _Bret is a lie,_ he tells himself. _This woman is in love with Santana. How is this even…?_ Brittany reaches him finally, keeping her hands firmly at her sides after seeing how adverse he was to the thought of her touch not a moment before. "If you care at all for Bret, we are the same," she speaks so softly Burt swears for a moment it is Kurt appealing to him. "I'm no different from him. Those drawings on your table are mine, that mug there, I drink from it all the same."

"Bret is a lie," Burt mutters.

"You've always said how much I remind you of Kurt."

Burt cringes, the tent flap falling from his hands as he hisses, "Do not bring my son into this!"

"You once thought of me as a son as well!" Brittany tells him, hushed. "I am Bret! _He is not a lie_!"

"You need to go," Burt tells her, lifting the flap once more and motioning for her to exit.

"Please Mr. Hummel, _please_ help us," Brittany all but begs, hands shaking as she realizes she cannot lose him. He's her only hope for getting Santana home safely and here, right now, that very end is crumbling before her eyes. She's no idea what to take on such a journey and Burt is always so thorough in the maps he constructs for her errands. He prepares everything for her, all she could ever need and more. She cannot do this without him. She needs him. He cannot hate her so… not Burt. She draws in a shuddering breath, heart breaking more with every moment he avoids her gaze. If he wishes nothing more to do with her… if this will be the last she ever sees of him… for Santana's sake she will yield to his scorn. "I swear to you you'll never be bothered by us none again if you help us to get out safe. _Please_ … she's so scared. I d-don't know _what to do_."

Burt's eyes close at the desperation in her voice. And he knows, in the deepest corners of his heart, that he'd regret letting her leave here without the guidance she seeks. She is still his charge; she still holds a piece of him he's unwilling to part with. Not yet. The nature of her relationship with Santana still eludes him, so contrary a coupling beneath the eyes of God. They must know what they see in the other is wrong, perhaps Santana is confused by all the men's garments upon Brittany's tall frame...

He knows that can't be true though. Not a girl as sharp as her.

Nevertheless he will worry over that matter later. For now there is a woman crying in his tent, begging of his assistance. The good in him cannot let her suffer so. He lets go of the tent flap, turning with a sigh back toward Brittany. Her eyes grow wide, hopeful as he meets her gaze.

"What truly happened in that cabin tonight?" he asks her.

Brittany tells him everything. The evening is so burned to her memory it's as if she's relieving it, second by second, as she speaks. Burt feels the same pangs of concern upon hearing it again, the words the same, though Dr. Lopez's outburst has now been given greater reason. _His actions are deplorable_ , Burt thinks, not just by the standards of a father, but of decency and humanity.

Brittany awaits Burt's response, hoping with all her heart he will now agree to assist in their departure. The time is slipping away from them; Santana must be beyond anxious.

Burt thinks there is but one way to ensure neither girl is implicated. Brittany will not like his answer. "If Dr. Lopez is as crazed as you say it's best you not be here," he tells her, but amends his words upon seeing Brittany's relieved smile. "Though _just_ _you_."

Her smile shatters, pupils suddenly as sharp as the tip of his finest pen. "W-what?"

"I've some supplies stuck in Glasgow; they didn't make it in on the shipment. I could use a courier," he says slowly.

"I can't leave Santana here," Brittany says, shaking her head quickly. "We have to go _together_."

Burt takes hold of her arms, eyes hard as they stare into her own. "If you wish to keep her _safe_ , it's better if _you're_ gone," he insists. "Running now will only make you both seem all the more guilty. Dr. Lopez has probably gone to the Colonel by now, if he hasn't already. I'll do what I can to convince him what Lopez speaks is lies and that you were never present but you _must_ leave. I'll tell him I sent you away at supper. Has anyone seen you since then?"

"Only Noah and Michael," Brittany answers, bewildered. How can this help? How can leaving be the answer? Her stomach plummets as she thinks of what Santana will say once she tells her.

"Good," Burt nods, moving away from her to gather the usual supplies for such a trip. As he works to stock a bag with spare rations he instructs, voice softened, "Take Piedmont and leave through the east end of camp, the patrols there are never on watch."

He tosses the bag toward her, Brittany catching it as she always does; though this time he notes she hugs it protectively to her chest. "Burt…" she whispers, her alarm evident in her unsteady tone.

She's never spoken his name; not once in all the time he's know her. Not even after all his countless attempts to pry it from Bret's stubbornly proper tongue. But this is not Bret before him. This is Brittany. He still can't quite believe it. Running a hand over his balding head he steadies himself with a firm hand placed atop a stool. He can't forget what she confessed… how dear she feels for Santana. With a sigh he tells her, "You best go."

And then she's rushing toward him, her arms thrown back around his neck as he's pulled into a crushing hug. "Thank you, thank you," she whispers against his ear, squeezing him tight. "I love you so much."

It was once a sentiment Burt would have easily returned. But he finds he can't; a hole has been rendered somewhere in his chest by the loss of the illusion he believed in. "Just go," he whispers and watches her run out into the night. Run off back to _her._

* * *

Santana practically pounces upon Brittany when she ducks back inside the small tent. Brittany barely manages to keep herself upright as Santana's hands grip firm to her upper arms, a slew of nervous words spilling forth from her mouth. They make Brittany's head spin, thoughts dazed as she tries to place even but one phrase. It helps none when Santana lapses into frantic Spanish.

"It's okay, he's okay San," Brittany assures her, placing calming hands atop Santana's knees. The touch quiets Santana, though does little to quell the turmoil burning in her eyes. Brittany smiles down at her, hoping her grin eases even a fraction of Santana's obvious apprehension. "He's going to help us."

"Then we must go," Santana tells her, about to move toward the tent entrance when Brittany's hands squeeze tight against her knees, keeping her in place.

"No," Brittany whispers, Santana's heart stilling at the faintness in her tone. "You're going to stay."

Santana's brow furrows, eyes narrowing in question. "But if my father has gone to Colonel Wright—"

"Burt is going to talk to him," Brittany explains softly, staring at her with such apology. "But I have to go."

" _Where?_ " Santana exclaims in a hushed whisper. It's also a might incensed, Brittany notes. She knew Santana would be upset with this idea.

"Glasgow, it's a day ride North from here," Brittany tells her, hoping to soothe Santana's quickly mounting exasperation by slowly rubbing her palms up and down Santana's thighs. It seems to not help at all, if anything Santana only grows more frustrated by the touch. "Burt has a plan, don't worry," Brittany says, stilling her hands. "All will be well."

"How is you leaving going to help at all?" The stare Santana sends her way is reproachful, belittling. "They'll just assume you've deserted!"

"They won't," Brittany tells her, adamant as she scoots closer. "Michael will speak for me, you _know_ he will. Between his word and Burt's your Pa's claims will seem nothing but lies."

"Brittany…" Santana breathes out, the truth to Brittany's words finally sinking in her panicked mind. Brittany can see Santana's defenses lowering, the taut coil of her shoulders unraveling. When she looks back up at her this time there is none of her spite; none of the sting of her criticisms remain. She is worn, so tired of fighting, a vulnerability of sorts apparent in her gaze. Santana's hands drop from her arms, twining instead with Brittany's hands upon her knees. "Just be safe, _please_."

Brittany allows a small smile, leaning forward until she can clearly make out the rich brown of Santana's eyes. "You know I always am," she whispers. Santana kisses her, just a ghost of a touch upon her lips. Brittany brushes one more to the corner of her mouth. "I better leave now, afore someone sees."

Santana nods, knowing her words to be true. For once she is glad for Brittany to be leaving on errand. If Burt cannot clear their names then at least there will be one less of them to condemn. She wants to spare Brittany from that punishment, if at all possible. Leaving now will ensure she remains unscathed.

It hurts nonetheless, letting her go.

"You know Christmas is soon," Brittany tells her, wiping the small amount of blood from Santana's brow with the pad of her thumb. She hates the cut but she hates the man who brought this all upon them even more. Santana's eyes soften at her touch, quelling the small spark of bitterness in Brittany's gut. The courier smiles, thoughts returning to the joy which tidings of Christmas bring to mind. "Perhaps I'll get you a gift while I'm away."

"I just want you to come back," is Santana's honest confession.

"I swear it," Brittany pulls her into a warm hug. "I love you, Santana."

" _I love you too_ ," Santana whispers fiercely, embracing Brittany close. " _Please stay safe_."

Brittany is worried for the desperate quality in Santana's tone. _She's still scared..._ and has ever reason to be, Brittany knows. This isn't like all the other times she's been sent away, where the promise of her return meant a peace brought back to mind. There will be no peace for them. Brittany leans back so as to cup Santana's face within her palms, needing her to hear her next words clearly. "You stay safe too, don't let him near, _not ever_. Promise me."

Santana nods, for it's all she's able to convey, words lost as they've become on quivering lips. Brittany kisses her then with such force she's taken aback, her hands quick to clutch tight to Brittany's coat lapels to keep herself from tumbling backwards. Blue eyes are tautly shut, a sharp intake of breath held long in her lungs. She wishes to remember this, fearing what the days to come will bring for them both. _If Burt is to fail_ …

Santana eases Brittany's intensity, gently drawing Brittany's bottom lip between her own, tasting of her slowly. The hands upon Santana's jaw relax and a small whimper of noise is elicited from the courier. This is Santana's promise to her, her kiss speaking far louder than any words Brittany could have wished to hear. She'll keep safe. _She'll be all right_.

_She won't be scared._

Brittany pulls back, air rushing to fill her starved lungs even as she leans back in, stealing a few more kisses. Santana's fingers brush over a bit of exposed skin beneath her scarf. Brittany's throat is still tender to the touch. It doesn't hurt, but Santana draws back away, rolling frayed sections of the scarf between her fingers. Brittany watches, calm once more returning to her breath as Santana fixes the fabric around her neck, careful of any spots where Brittany's skin is still rubbed raw.

"Go," she whispers, patting Brittany's shoulders as she manages a shaky smile. "Go before I run away with you myself."

Brittany knows it's very much a possibility, one that she simultaneously desires and fears. To go home, back to her father and Emily and all the animals she misses so dearly, every day, upon her farm; to go back to Lima with Santana safe by her side is all she's wanted. All she's prayed for. She whispers a silent plea to her mother for Santana's continued wellbeing. Brittany knows she'll worry for her, every minute of every passing hour while she's away. It is why she ensures her cap is pulled tight on her head and gives Santana a confident grin before ducking out the tent and toward an indeterminate future.

Had she waited a moment longer she's sure she would have pulled Santana out with her.

It takes all Santana's will power to remain in the tent as she listens to Brittany's steps fade into the night. She's so uncertain of what tomorrow will bring.

But Brittany is gone.

_She will be safe._

She doesn't sleep regardless.

* * *

Santana leaves the tent with the light of dawn, dreading what her day may bring. Her only solace comes from the fact that Brittany is long gone now; whatever trials she is to face will be done so alone and without fear of Brittany being brought down with her. It is a sacrifice of sorts, one each of them is making, for Santana knows if Brittany were given a choice she would have instantly elected to stay instead.

She knows not how dangerous that circumstance would have been and chooses not to think more on it. Brittany is safe. She is far away and if things are to turn for the worse Santana is glad she will not be here to suffer them as well.

She's chores to attend to, and falls into her morning routine with some difficulty. All her belongings are still stashed beneath her cot and she's wary of venturing near the cabin. She'd promised Brittany to not let him close, but she needs her things; at the very least her tools and another clean dress.

She needn't have worried.

Her possessions are in a haphazard pile outside the cabin when she chances a pass by. A few men rummage through the heap, quirking brows as they raise her pantaloons and jest of their desires for the owner.

They freeze upon sight of her, hands crossed defiantly over her chest as she stares them each down. Her clothes are dropped as they scatter, knowing full well the temper she's more than capable of unleashing upon them. Her sharp tongue has struck down enough men in this camp for them to ever risk being degraded so openly, and by a woman no less.

_It is an embarrassment._

They'd never hear the end of it, mocked relentlessly till they proved their worth or, in the more likely event, dropped dead.

"Bastards," Santana mutters to herself, watching them withdraw back to their chores. Once they've gone she turns down to gather her things. Of course he tossed her belongings from his sight. They are apparently as much of an abomination now as she is herself. She can imagine the disgust upon his face as he threw them from the cabin, probably thinking the items as riddled with sin as her supposed soul has become. Santana tries to bite back her tears as she stands to her feet.

When she returns to Brittany's tent she's unable to contain the pain any longer.

She is nothing but a mar upon his life, has only ever been such. She has wasted so much time and shed so many tears for but a word of his affection. It never existed, a truth she's always known. Yet now it feels more real to her than the perception of it that's always been at the forefront of her mind.

A notion could never truly harm.

But the veracity of it resting in her hands, that is real.

He wants nothing to do with her.

Despises her.

Always has.

She curls down into the bedroll.

She misses Brittany terribly and yearns for her swift return.

She cannot do this alone.

* * *

**December 6th, 1862**

She avoids the field hospital like a plague the next day, scuttling around the camp in a restless fog. He is sure to be in there and she is sure to be clamped in irons at any moment. It is torture, this game he's playing upon her mind. She knows he's relishing in her agony, waiting for the opportune moment when she's at her worst to approach with the Colonel by his side. She wishes not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her being taken away. It is the _one thing_ she can control.

What she cannot avoid, it seems, is the aptitude of her friends. They find her sitting just outside the camp; perched in a field of grass and snow, the smell reminding her of Brittany and bringing her much needed comfort. The snow on the ground is melting, patches of the once-vibrant green peeking through. It's a muted brown now, slowly dying from the cold snap of the winter air.

She plucks a few pieces from the ground, twisting them between her fingers.

She just wishes something would happen, _anything_. This limbo she is existing in is maddening.

Michael plops down to her one side, Noah slowly to her other. He's looking well, albeit covered in a sheen of sweat she knows is his body's way of ridding him from such a potent amount of toxins.

They say nothing as they sit beside her for a few long minutes. Eventually Michael moves, draping a coat around her shoulders, one Santana notes fits snug about her frame despite her never having seen the likes of it until today.

"I believe congratulations are in order," Michael says with a soft smile.

"An official surgeon!" Noah boasts, clapping her over the shoulder gently. "Now you've the lapels to prove it!"

Santana stares at each of them, bewilderment apparent on her face. She's not eaten since Brittany left, her stomach such a knot of nerves; her appetite has been stunted. She did not need a new coat… her old one is perfectly fine.

"Compliments of Major Keller," Michael explains, adjusting it more suitably over her arms. "He'd like you to join his ranks."

" _What_?" is the squeak of noise Santana is able to manage out.

Noah laughs, wiping at his forehead as he nudges her side. "Everyone knows what your father tried to do."

Santana's eyes shoot wide open.

"Not of _that_ ," Michael corrects glaring over her head toward the man. "Noah's told me though," he tells her quietly. "I know you probably wish not to speak of it but know we are here. He's not won. What Noah meant is everyone's aware of the surgery he attempted and how you intervened."

"Has he been in?" Santana asks him, voice quieted.

Michael shakes his head.

Santana leans against him, glad for the arm Michael wraps around her shoulder. They sit together for some time, watching the men below bustle about the camp. She notices Burt hobble by, his pained expression clear even from a far. She must thank him, she thinks. It's because of him nothing has changed.

Eventually the men coax Santana up to her feet, Noah even managing to draw a smile to her lips when he tells her of the strange visions the opium caused him. She's so relieved the dosage did not cause him more harm; her father thankfully a much smaller man than her friend. But for him to have even plunged the needle without care, knowing the possibility of Noah's heart failing from such a dose… there are no words Santana can find to describe such utter disregard for life.

But she knows of one way she can ensure he doesn't win in this matter.

She fastens up her double-breasted coat proudly.

There are patients in the field hospital awaiting her care.

* * *

It is late in the day when he finally does arrive within the field hospital. The first thing Santana notices is the change in his uniform. Gone is his old surgeon jacket, replaced instead by the simple cut of a medic's. She need not wonder more upon the change, knowing it was Major Keller who's stripped him of his title, and it seems gone far enough to also strip him from the very symbol of all his pride. The nurses move from his path, their sneers evident even at a distance.

And even though she promised Brittany to stay clear, she must know what he's said, if anything at all against them.

He's begrudgingly stocking one of their cabinets with the shipment of bandages they received just a few days prior. Major Keller obviously not trusting him near vials of medication any longer. He can feel her approaching even before he garners a glimpse. The hush that has swept over the staff is telling.

"Have you gone to him?" She knows she need not elaborate; there is only one person they are both aware he could have told.

Dr. Lopez snorts, eyeing her double-breasted coat from over his shoulder with disdain. Good god; it is as if even the brass of the buttons mock him. "Why should I answer? What can I gain from speaking to such a _harlot_?"

Santana grabs him by the arm, spinning him to face her as she whispers hotly, "Have you, or have you not?"

He wrenches his arm free. "I've not," he snarls.

" _Why?_ " Santana implores. Why has he not defiled her name? Why has he not spoken the truth of Brittany's secret? "You've _everything_ to benefit by it."

He turns to her then, staring at her curiously from sober eyes. "Is that what you think? I simply out you for the _abomination you both are_ and all shall be forgiven?" he asks, narrowing his gaze into her own as he leans toward her. His jaw is clenched tight, words hissed between his teeth, "You may not be of this family anymore but my name still follows you like a shadow. Everyone in this camp knows who you are, who you _belong_ to. I'll never be rid of you and I won't have your _vile_ affair with that _girl_ spreading through this regiment and added to my _indiscretions_. _It won't just be you who hangs for such a sin_."

He straightens his jacket as he rises, turning back to his chore of organizing the cabinets. Santana knows not what to make of his words. The veiled threat of them settles uneasily in her gut.

"And why should I interfere with the mark you've now burned onto your soul?" he asks, not once looking back to her as he arranges some tourniquets on a shelf. "God sees all, _Santana_. I don't need to condemn you. Not when you've already condemned yourself. He'll see to the rest."

Santana wishes to spit a retort back, something as equally dismissive as his own. But none manifests. Flustered and embarrassed for still standing agape behind him she turns on her heels and strides out the field hospital.

There's someone else she need speak with and thankfully she knows he won't frustrate her so.

Her anger dissipates when she enters Burt tent. She's been meaning to see him ever since Brittany left, but hadn't the nerve to do so until now. He doesn't notice her standing in his entrance at first, his back turned toward the oven fire as he pulls out a scalding red horseshoe with a pair of blacksmith tongs. She waits for him to put it down before clearing her throat, not wishing to startle him.

"Umm, Mr Hummel?" She calls, tentative.

He hasn't heard her, her voice drowned by a grunt as he bends to pick his hammer from the floor. There's sweat upon his brow, the familiar pull of tension lining his face. She worries for the pain he must be enduring. Why hadn't he mentioned it? He knows he's always welcome within the field hospital. His pains just as significant as any others. How long has his knee been giving him such trouble?

Instead of voicing her opinion out loud though all Santana can manage is small "Hi…" as she greets him timidly, fingering the bottle of pills in her pocket.

Burt looks up at her from over his work, his expression not revealing even an ounce of the misgiving now pounding in his heart. He knew she'd come. He's not been looking forward to her arrival. After a beat he turns back to hammering down the horseshoe. "If you're here about the Colonel he's none the wiser. No one is. You should count your blessings for such dumb luck," he tells her, voice raised to be heard over the clang of the metal. When her footsteps out his tent aren't forthcoming he pauses, arching a brow her way. "Shouldn't you be getting back to patients?"

Santana is stunned by the bite in his tone. This is not at all how she expected to be received. Nevertheless she steps closer toward him. "I came here to thank you."

"Don't thank me," Burt mutters, tossing the horseshoe back to his oven.

"You're helping us when you've no reason to," Santana tells him, her heartfelt tone surprising even to her own ears. She holds out the pill bottle for him. "Here, it's for the pain."

"I don't want your pills," Burt pushes her hand aside before picking up his tongs to pull the more malleable horseshoe out. "Please go."

Santana refuses to leave, not until she's had her say. It's obvious Burt's opinion of her has grown unfavorable. _Does he feel the same now for Brittany?_ Why would he have offered to help them if so? Santana knows where his slight is born. Brittany must have told him and if not, Burt is a smart man; he's determined by now what place Brittany holds in her heart. She expected his reaction, really. It is but one of the many reasons she's been avoiding his tent. She's intent on making things right in any case, for Brittany's sake. "She loves you, you know," Santana tells him, earnest. "Thinks you a second father. The way she talks of you—"

Burt slaps a hand to the table, his eyes narrowed in grief as he stares up at her. " _Please leave_ , Miss Santana," he begs of her. "I may hold a place in my heart for her but the tricks you've played upon her mind to love you in such a wicked way I cannot ignore."

"I haven't _tricked_ her into loving me," Santana counters, her own gaze turning sour. So it isn't Brittany he holds faults with. _It is me._

"Couldn't you have seduced anyone else?" Burt cries out. He stands up to his feet, ripping the thick leather gloves from his hands. "Why Bret!"

"Her name is _Brittany_ ," Santana says evenly, careful to keep her tone tempered. "And if you think I've some type of… of _perverse influence_ over her than you are not the man she speaks so highly of."

"I'm a good man. I've done _nothing_ but treat you both as if you were my very own," Burt tells her, tossing the gloves to his workbench. He motions toward Santana, lip curling in a look that churns Santana's stomach. _Not to her,_ she pleads to herself. _He did not say these things to Brittany_. "But this… this is _unheard_ of. There's not even a word I can think of to describe it!"

"Not a word? Should I list the ones I've heard for you? Let you have your pick?" Santana asks of him, her voice becoming thick with the sound of the tears now collecting in her eyes. She holds out a hand, ticking off each word upon her hand. "My father thinks us an atrocity. I've been deemed depraved, abominable, and oh- there's of course my favorite, sinful," she spits out, glaring at Burt. "You might find that one fitting."

"How can you stand there like that? Knowing what you've done to her."

"Because I used to believe the same as you. That what I felt for her was wrong and—" she chokes upon her words, recalling just how _horrible_ she'd been. "And that I must be _sick_ for it _._ " She says it with such shame, her eyes having gone so utterly soft that Burt is taken aback. "But Brittany never shared my sentiments. To her, what we feel for each other has always been right. She's never questioned it."

Burt can hear the sizzle of his horseshoe, melting, unsalvageable in his oven. A waste. "Women weren't made to love each other in such a way."

"And yet we do, regardless," Santana tells him, blinking back the water from her eyes. Her chin is held high when she addresses him next. "I love her. I can no more help it than you can the love for your son. Or the love I know you still hold for her."

"What do you want from me?" Burt asks, tired of this exchange.

"Nothing," Santana answers. She can see now Burt is obstinate in his beliefs, the hard line of his jaw and cold stare in his eyes as unbending as the steel hanging from his tent walls. She places the small bottle of pills down on his table. "As I said I just came to thank you."

Burt stares at the tiny bottle. _A bribe_ , he thinks, disgusted. Is this how she swayed Brittany? With gifts and promises of love? He can imagine it so. Brittany is always so eager to believe whatever those she trusts and respects speak as truth. Unquestionably. Her loyalty unfailing. She left not to protect herself but to protect this woman who... this woman wishing nothing of him but an open heart. The longer he stares upon the pills the more he feels his spite unfounded. They are not a bribe… they aren't even a truce.

They are just her keen notice for his wellbeing.

"She needs looking after, you know," Burt calls out softly before she is able to fully exit the tent. He cannot yet meet her eyes though he feels her gaze upon him. "She forgets things so easily, and so much confuses her it worries me most days if not all the time. I mean just yesterday—"

"Mr. Hummel," Santana turns, smiling as he finally looks up at her. "I promise to look after her."

And he nods, picking his gloves back up as he motions out the tent. "You should go," he says.

It is not the way she wishes to leave him, but she knows more need not be said. Wishing him well she ducks out of his tent. She only hopes when Brittany sees him next his mind is made up in their favor.

* * *

**December 7th, 1862**

The moon has long since marked its path across the sky when Brittany finally makes it back to camp. She slows Piedmont's approach, mindful of the quiet embracing the camp. For once she can hear the soft current of the river and the ripples as the water breaks against the bridge nearby. Piedmont's gait is light, the clomp of his hooves against the trodden grass doing little to rouse the sleep from the watchmen's eyes. The two soldiers posted at the front path are slumped against each other, one with his mouth-hung open and the other curled tightly in his coat. Their rifles lie forgotten by their sides, dulled metal barely glinting in the bright moonlight. Brittany's gaze wanders up the signpost behind them. There's a small trail of smoke leaking out from the extinguished glass lamp hanging above their heads. The flame can't have died too long ago, the soldiers obviously having succumbed to fatigue far earlier.

Brittany merely shakes her head as she maneuvers Piedmont around them, the men never once stirring as they pass. She's grateful for their tiredness, it would have been meddlesome otherwise to explain why she is returning so late in the night. Even though the rest of camp is well asleep Brittany is wide-awake and has been since leaving Glasgow in the early hours of the morning. She feels not an ounce of weariness seeping into her muscles, though is sure she lost feeling in her arms hours ago. She flexes her fingers in Piedmont's reins; surprised by the dexterity after such a long time spent clutched so stringently to the leather band. She is afraid they'd have stuck; unable to move just as her mind is unable to cease thinking of what's transpired during her absence.

_Did he tell anyone? Hurt her again?_

_Is she still here?_

_Did Burt settle everything? And Noah, what's become of him?_

_Please Ma, let them all be all right_ , Brittany prays whenever her thoughts grow too troubling.

All she wishes to do now is find Santana. It's all she's wanted since the moment she hopped upon Piedmont's back and took off into that cold night. She gives a quick shake of the reins now, Piedmont's gait speedier as she steers him toward the cavalry enclosure. The gate comes undone with a quick kick of her foot, swinging open as she leads Piedmont inside. Brittany slips down off his back, unhooking Burt's small pouch of supplies before she gives the horse an affectionate pat on his hind. He immediately makes his way toward the back trough, where a bit of hay still remains uneaten and Brittany closes the enclosure, wishing him a goodnight.

She breaks into a run once the clasp is secure, sprinting headlong toward her tent. Her footsteps, though quick, are muted against the loose dirt. Inside her chest she can feel her heart pumping fast, not from exertion but the unanswered questions she fears receiving closure to now. _Santana is all right_ , she repeats to herself when her vision begins to cloud with tears. _She must be_. The quiet of the night is deafening, suffocating even as she slams to her knees outside her tent. Squatting low she reaches out and pushes the flaps aside, quickly ducking her head into the space.

She is relieved, utterly lightheaded, to find Santana within yet she is stunned to discover the doctor _peacefully_ sound asleep on her bedroll. Brittany is momentarily baffled by the sight of Santana buried comfortably beneath a thick pile of blankets looking as if it's where she's always belonged. If anything Brittany imagined Santana as wide-awake as she is, waiting for her, haversacks packed and ready for a swift departure. _Not tonight it seems_ , Brittany thinks, pondering on what occurred – or more aptly now, what did _not_ occur – during their time apart. Santana would not be so at ease if things had gone poorly. _But how could they have gone right?_

Nevertheless, Brittany does not question what she's returned to. She is pleased for the tranquility expressed on Santana's dozing face. She's missed her something fierce and doesn't want to wake her so she's careful to slip off her dirty boots outside the tent. Her coat is shed next, laid atop the other that covers Santana before she finds the edge to the blankets and carefully slides herself beneath.

It's warm in the nest the bedroll has become, Santana's body heat more than welcome as it washes across Brittany's chilled skin.

"Britt…?" Santana mumbles, incoherent as Brittany cuddles up in front of her, looping an arm over Santana's waist.

"Found you," Brittany whispers, brushing her lips lightly over Santana's nose.

The sleepy smile that starts to break across Santana's face at her touch warms every frostbitten part of Brittany to her very core, and pushes the rest of her worries far from thought. _All is right_. She pulls Santana into her embrace, dark eyes still reluctant to open even as Santana nuzzles into Brittany's neck. A hand comes up from deep within the blankets, Santana's eyes are still closed as she drags Brittany's cap off and lets it fall to the ground behind the pillow of scarves. Her fingers lazily untangle the blonde braid; Brittany lets out a soft hum, almost a purr as Santana runs her hands softly through her hair.

Santana inhales deeply, relaxing further in Brittany's arms. She smells of horses and sweat and yet Santana thinks nothing could smell more wonderful. She's so glad Brittany's home.

"We don't have to go," Santana murmurs. "He's not going to say anything… everything's all right…"

"Are you sure?" Brittany asks quietly, wishing Santana would open her eyes. "And Noah too?" But Santana remains relaxed against her, her nod barely distinguishable. If Santana is so at ease, her words must be true. Brittany smiles, the last of her worries melting away. She was so ready to grab the woman and take off for Lima if need be and now that they needn't move she feels the same exhaustion plaguing the men of camp settling in. Her heart warms as she feels one of Santana's legs settle between her own.

When Santana's breathing begins to deepen Brittany doesn't wish to lose her to her dreams just yet. "I wanted to get you a gift," Brittany confesses softly, tracing a soothing and slow pattern up and down Santana's side. "But I forgot I had no money."

"Don' wan'…. nothin'," Santana mumbles, burying herself deeper in Brittany's body. She can feel Brittany chuckling; the affectionate sound resonates against her cheek.

"You don't want _anything_ ," Brittany corrects in jest, kissing Santana's forehead. Santana lets out a huff, another incoherent string of words issue from her mouth. Brittany leans her head down, pressing her forehead gently against Santana's. "I'm sorry I can't give you a Christmas," she whispers.

Santana's eyes open ever so slightly at the lament in Brittany's hushed voice. Far more awake now Santana brings a hand forward, palm fitting over a snow-kissed cheek. She runs her thumb in a light stroke over the cool skin, smiling softly as she whispers back, "I don't need a Christmas."

Brittany sighs, leaning into her touch. "It's your first without—" she begins but stops herself before too much is said. She can still see the flicker of fresh pain in Santana's eyes as the hand upon her cheek stills. She frowns. "I just want it to be good."

"It will be," Santana tells her. She slips her hand behind Brittany's head, pulling her close and kissing her soundly. As they part she whispers against warm lips, "I've you."

Brittany can't help the smile the breaks across her face. With a breathy chuckle she pulls Santana atop her, prompting a small squeal from the woman at the surprising move. But Santana is quick to melt into the arms Brittany wraps tightly around her, her head coming to rest just atop her chest. "I've missed you." Brittany's voice sounds deeper, gruffer somehow from where she rests.

It causes a flutter of sensation to erupt in Santana's stomach as she too replies in kind. "I've as well. Shall I count the ways?" she smirks, feeling particularly playful.

"No, that's all right," Brittany replies, confused as to why Santana would even ask. She must know by now how math terribly frustrates her. "Counting is dull and you probably have a lot so I'd most likely fall asleep. Like I do when I can't sleep so I count fish rolling down a hill. They go so slow, San. It's _terribly_ boring."

Santana knows it was a long shot; Brittany is obviously not very well read and certainly not in sonnets. But she chuckles anyway, pressing a kiss to her collarbone. "I've missed you and all your charmingly convoluted reflections," she whispers. A small smile pulls at her lips afterward and she shifts in Brittany's arms, hoping to quickly slide into a more comfortable position atop the woman. She doesn't want to smother her after all, especially knowing how weary she must be from her journey. Her legs fall between Brittany's, feet quick to seek a pocket of heat. The hard metal of Brittany's belt bites into the skin of her hip as she does and Santana lets out a soft groan as she rolls to her side.

"Am I not comfortable?" Brittany asks quietly, hoping for a response in the negative.

"You are," Santana says, smirking as she taps a few of her fingers to Brittany's belt buckle. "This? Not quite as much."

"Oh," Brittany smiles sheepishly, releasing her hold upon Santana to find only one hand able to make it to her belt. The other trapped somewhere behind Santana's back. The brass of her buckle is cumbersome on most days, though she's grown accustomed to wearing the men's version now. She still misses her suspenders, preferring the snug fit of them to the leather now being pulled from around her waist. _At least suspenders don't hurt_ , she muses, tossing the belt aside.

She's about to tug Santana back down atop her but stops when Santana stifles a giggle with a bite of her lip. "And what have we here _Miss Bret_?" she asks, prodding at the bulge in Brittany's slacks.

Brittany lets out a huff of breath; her hand quick to disappear beneath the waistband of her drawers. As she brings her hand forward Santana is none surprised to find a rolled up sock clutched between Brittany's fingers. "It's my cock sock," Brittany explains simply.

"Clearly," Santana deadpans. Her face scrunches though as she asks, "Please tell me you don't actually… wear those on your feet too."

Brittany rolls her eyes, shaking her head. "I told you this is a _cock sock_ , San. Not a feet sock."

Santana props herself up on an elbow, plucking the rolled up sock from Brittany' hand. It's warm, her cheeks darkening as realization dawns on her as to why. She puts it aside quickly, a question spewed forth in hopes Brittany does not notice her blush. "You wear it every day?"

"Yes, every day. Along with the men's drawers too, you know, _just in case_ ," Brittany explains surreptitiously as if Santana should understand the meaning behind her vague choice of words. But Santana does not, simply attributing it to yet another of Brittany's oddly endearing habits. Naturally, wearing men's slacks would mean needing men's drawers; it is as simple to her as that _._ Brittany tucks some stray sections of Santana's hair behind her far ear. She can see the hint of embarrassment, though it verges on amusement now, in Santana's expression. She chuckles. "It's not very comfortable. I can see why Noah's always scratching himself."

Santana let's out a snort. "That's just because he bathes so seldom."

"They don't have warm water like us," Brittany points out. "It hurts for him to bathe."

"Michael seems to not have a problem keeping clean."

"Michael hurts in other ways," Brittany says softly. "Have you spoken to him… about his baby?"

Santana lets her chin fall, her hair once more falling to frame her face. "No…" she answers quietly, knowing she's no excuse to have not asked after him. She can feel Brittany pushing her hair aside, disappointed eyes already focused upon her own. "Brittany, please don't look at me so."

"They get broken hearts too, San," Brittany tells her, her touch down Santana's neck as calming as it is alluring. "I talk to Noah, about Finn sometimes."

Santana lets out a groan, allowing her body to crash down beside Brittany's. Her forehead presses against Brittany's shoulder and Brittany can feel the shake of her head along her arm. "Michael's having a difficult enough time with the idea of _us_ ," Santana says. She turns her head, looking up at Brittany. "I don't think bringing up his dead daughter will help matters any."

"He hasn't anyone else to talk to," Brittany whispers.

"When the time is right I shall," Santana sighs before the same small elated smile she donned before spreads across her lips again. "I'm just far too happy you're here and that all is well to think much more upon anything at the moment."

"It was my Ma," Brittany says, her voice filled with faith. "She's looking after us."

"Yeah," Santana whispers, not wishing for the wistful smile upon Brittany's lips to fade. She feels a lump firmly lodge in her throat when Brittany turns her head and looks down upon her. There is such hope in the blue eyes, so bright now even in the dark of the tent. She watches as that brightness gives way to a deeper shade, a color that muddles with the night and causes Santana to swallow hard.

"You're all I thought of while I was away," Brittany tells her, the tone of her voice eliciting a rousing shiver of sensations to ripple down Santana's spine. One of her legs twitches, though which she isn't sure, and it especially gives a spasm when she feels Brittany's calf rub against one of her own. Brittany, to her credit, simply smiles at Santana's reaction. She scoots closer, turning to her side. She wishes to ask the same of her, to hear just how much Santana craved her touch, but her eyes flitter over what remains of the bruise _he_ laid to her face. It's yellowed, the skin still damaged, cut above her eye a might swollen. Brittany reaches forward, brushing her fingertips gently over the mark.

"I'm all right, Britt," Santana whispers, understanding the silent question in Brittany's touch.

Brittany's eyes meet hers, pained. "I'm so sorry I didn't stop him in time."

Santana blames her not. She blames no one for what transpired in that cabin aside from the man who wrought misfortune upon himself. And he is someone she wishes not to waste another second thinking of. She bridges the small gap between them, quick to quell anymore of Brittany's worries with a disarming kiss. It takes Brittany a moment to respond, too caught up in the longed-for feel of Santana's lips melding against her own to fully reciprocate. She feels Santana make to move away, the small shift in the bedroll a loud scream of sound in her ears. Brittany's hand is swift to cup against Santana's jaw, her lips begging for the warmth pressed against her own to part. The simple move is all it takes for Santana to press harder against her; Brittany's back once more meeting the thin material of her bedroll.

Santana lies half atop her, one leg still tangled between Brittany's as she forces herself up to her elbows, kissing Brittany deeper. The scratches the wood floor cut in her elbows protest, new skin stinging as it's stretched beyond its healed limits. Santana pushes the slight discomfort aside; she is not about to stop over scabbed elbows. Her hair falls from behind her ear, shrouding them as she bends her neck low. Their kiss never breaks, if anything it grows more heated even as the space between their bodies fills with the chill air still lingering in the tent. A warm hand presses against the edge of her ribs, grabbing a fistful of her nightdress and pulling the material up. The hem is already brushing against her calves and up to her thighs when she breaks the kiss, panting heavily.

"Brittany," Santana breathes out, rolling her weight to one arm and pressing her hand over Brittany's with her other. She stares down at Brittany, unsurprised to find blue eyes clouded with longing, her own very much reflecting the same want. What does surprise her is when Brittany releases her hold, threading their fingers together instead as she sits up. Santana moves with her, very much straddling one of Brittany's thighs once she's settled. Her skirt is bunched between them, Brittany resting their twined hands down on the folds of material.

When Brittany looks up at her this time, patient and apologetic, Santana regrets ever stopping her. It's a look Brittany can read clearly upon her face. Smiling softly, her breaths still shallow, she reaches her hand up and traces her fingers over Santana's left brow. She lets them run through unruly hair, stopping only once she's reached the back of Santana's neck. A gentle tug has Santana leaning forward, eyes falling close as her forehead presses against Brittany's.

And when Brittany asks in breathless simplicity, "Can soon be now?" Santana knows she need not exhale a word in reply. Fitting Brittany's face in her hands she answers by drawing her into a burning kiss.

The smile Santana can feel against her lips renders her heart a mess of wild beats. She doesn't even know how Brittany's managed to work her hands beneath her nightdress until she feels hot palms against the skin of her stomach. She lets out a yelp at the surprising touch, one that is quick to morph to a moan as blood rushes down past her belly and Brittany pulls them back to the bedroll.

"If someone were to hear us," Santana manages to breathe out as Brittany's mouth burns a slow path down her neck, hands working the nightdress further up Santana's body. " _Heavens_ , Britt I—"

"Shhh," Brittany whispers. Santana can feel the lips upon her neck curling into a smirk as Brittany chuckles out, coy, "someone could _hear_."

Santana doesn't know how a teasing touch so quickly disintegrated into teasing words. She appreciates it none, pushing up to her hands intent on throwing such a look down at the woman beneath her but it hardly ever manifests. Not with Brittany looking at her as she is, sprawled, shirt somehow now half-opened and with a satisfied smile crawling slowly across her lips.

"I am very, very, _very_ much in love with you right now," Brittany drawls, biting her lip as her eyes rove over Santana's own.

Santana can't speak at the confession, feeling only more spurred by want as she moves back down. Forearms flat against the bedroll, she bends and presses a lingering kiss to Brittany's mouth. She pulls back with a bite upon Brittany's bottom lip, Brittany letting out a soft moan in protest before those same lips are upon the hollow of her throat. Santana rolls her shoulders forward, hair tickling Brittany's neck, a giggle and squirm following from the woman beneath her as she kisses down to her chest. Brittany's skin is warm and Santana unable to resist as she runs her tongue in a short path across one of Brittany's breasts. Brittany tastes of what Santana imagines anyone would after riding upon horseback for two days. Somehow of dirt and old hay and she makes note not to taste of Brittany's skin after such journeys until she's able to have a proper bath.

She's no less aroused, shifting to free a hand more than willing to replace her tongue. Brittany cares not for fingers, not when Santana's mouth felt so much more pleasurable. Arching her back up she tangles a hand in dark hair and guides Santana's mouth back to her breast.

"Uhhh, Brittany," Santana groans, picking her head up and quirking a brow down at the panting woman. "You must know you taste like a barn."

"And you taste of… of bandages," Brittany offers between bated breaths, cheeks flushed red. "I like it..."

They stare at one another, Santana squinting in question and Brittany daring her to speak otherwise. After a moment Santana's eyes soften, a smile upon her lips as she dips down and lightly rakes her teeth over one of Brittany's nipples. The taste the second time bothers her none at all. "Hmm, next time, I think we try this your way."

"Wha—?" Brittany gasps, her mind not quite able to process Santana's comment, nor anything aside from the feel of Santana's lips upon her breast.

Santana gives tug to Brittany's slacks, her mouth still where Brittany wishes her most as she helps her to wriggle free from the men's clothing. As Brittany kicks the drawers from her feet Santana moves back atop her. She presses a chaste kiss to her lips, grinning when she pulls away and whispers but one word. "Tub."

"Tubbington?" Brittany asks, puzzled by what he could have to do with sex. _Hopefully nothing, ever, at all. I'll lock him in Pa's room if I must._

"Good god, _no_ ," Santana chuckles, rolling her eyes. "I meant _a bath._ "

"Oh," Brittany says, her ears burning pink. "That's what I meant too."

"Did you?" Santana teases.

"You're not being very quiet," Brittany notes in jest and takes hold of Santana's nightdress once more, pulling it up this time until the skirt and slip beneath are bunched over her hips. Santana is struck silent by the move, arms shaking as she struggles to remain holding herself upright. She's half exposed, the feel of the coarse blanket scratches, foreign, against her backside and thighs. Her fingers dig into the bedroll, eyes no longer playful as they lock upon Brittany's own. Brittany can see the flicker of distress pass in the gaze above. Santana is very quiet now, upsettingly so. "Is this all right?"

"I-I've…" Santana begins to say, voice lost.

Brittany lets go, propping herself to her elbows instead. "You were so brave not a minute ago," she whispers, placing a soft kiss to the corner of Santana's mouth.

Santana closes her eyes, letting out a long breath. She's no reason to be so suddenly uneasy, reminding herself _for god's sake her nipple was just between your teeth!_ But the thought does little to untie the veritable knot of anxiety her stomach has become. She wants this, she tells herself, has had countless dreams of this very moment. Granted, they were far more romantic and she far more suave. This is a tiny tent, the bed barely big enough for one let alone them both. The snores of the men neighboring easily permeate through the thin fabric, a choice backdrop to their evening if there ever was one. It is not ideal, her feet are starting to grow chill and she's acutely aware whatever material Brittany's blanket is made from may result in a rash upon her ass come dawn.

She opens her eyes, finding Brittany staring up at her with that same tender patience she always reserves just for her. Santana doesn't wish for her to wait any longer and nor does she think she can either. This bed may not be of her imaginings, or the sounds about them soothing let alone the hour of the night perfect, but Brittany is. She's more than her visions. She's real, she's here. _She wants soon to be now_. And frankly, Santana realizes, to hell with all the rest.

"It's okay, Britt," she tells her.

"Then can I?" Brittany asks, waiting for Santana's answer. It comes in the form of a nod, assured and small. Brittany kisses her then, not yet moving her hands, simply hoping to draw the bold woman from moments before back out through her kiss. Santana astonishes her when she pulls away and in one fluid motion slips the nightdress and undergarment up over her head. They can hear it landing upon a pile of Santana's journals and books; some pencils resting atop roll to the ground in return.

All at once neither is able to move, Brittany fixated at the sight of Santana's bare form and Santana unable to look away from Brittany's darkening gaze.

"Should I…?" Santana makes to move aside but Brittany's hands find firm purchase on her hips, keeping her in place balanced above.

"I want you here," Brittany whispers heavily, breathing deeply, so desperate to keep herself still and not give into her desire to press up and feel Santana's skin against her own. She's never seen her like this, not once glimpsed of the body always contained beneath the modest garb of the union nurse dress. Her hand is hesitant as it moves up, her fingers tentative in their touch. _She's a mark like mine_ , Brittany thinks, smiling as her fingers brush over a dark spot just along the front of Santana's shoulder. She ventures them downward, over the swell of her breasts and plane of her stomach. The muscles beneath Santana's skin grow taught beneath her fingers, gooseflesh rising along her arms.

" _Brittany_ ," Santana all but rasps out, lowering herself some, unable to support her full weight upon her arms any longer. Her body trembles as Brittany's hands move lower still and she buries her forehead in the groove of Brittany's collarbone. Her hands find purchase in the bedroll by Brittany's sides; elbows digging in deep as well when warm fingers finally slip between her legs. Her back arches up, pelvis involuntarily pitching forward seeking friction.

Santana's hips roll against Brittany's right hand, desperate to find release in the searching touch. " _There_ ," she breathes out, eyes squeezing shut when Brittany's fingers flitter across a bundle of nerves. Her body shudders, a moan suppressed with a hard kiss. Brittany's fingers disappear a moment later, the rush of pleasure subsiding. Santana groans, "No, _there_ … _up_ …"

"It's all… backwards," Brittany tells her between kisses, drawing a leg up between Santana's own.

Santana can't help but let out a laugh, placing a wet kiss to the side of Brittany's nose.

"Here," she shifts upon her knees and Brittany's hand slides back into place against her center. Brittany gives an experimental graze of her thumb.

"Oh, _there_ ," Brittany grins, pleased when Santana is barely able to nod, her breaths once more labored. She curls two of her fingers forward, Santana letting out a whimper that Brittany quickly swallows with a kiss. "I won't forget," Brittany whispers against her mouth, Santana only hearing the unspoken _next time_ of her words. The promise of more heats her blood, the air of the tent heavy and the smell of fresh sweat strong.

This time Brittany focuses solely on Santana's face. She pulls her knee up higher, planting her heel and toes into the bedroll, giving Santana the purchase she needs. A rhythm is struck, slow in it's pace at first, quickening with the rise and fall of Santana's chest. Santana's hands grip harder to the bedroll as she moves against Brittany's hand, her back arching on occasion until Brittany pulls her down before any noise can tear out her throat.

Her eyes, Brittany notices, remain squeezed tightly shut, holding back, unwilling to let go.

Brittany pulls Santana's head low, wanting those brown eyes upon her. It takes some coaxing, a kiss and a nudge of Brittany's nose until they open, heavy-lidded and filled with an emotion Brittany knows only she has ever been privy to, and hopes to only ever be so. They're exposed, so utterly bare in a way even her skin cannot ever be. And without a doubt, no matter how many times she may have fumbled, Brittany knows only she can ever elicit such a look of devotion from the woman above her. Such utter need. Love.

Brittany rises up, stomach muscles straining against the pull as she captures Santana's lips between her own. She won't ever forget this. She simply can't.

It is worth everything to her.

She applies more pressure with her thumb, fingers slick as they move within Santana. A push of her leg against her hand and Santana's face is pressing into her neck, the heat between her legs clenching tight around long fingers. A hot, shuddering exhale is released against her skin, a strangled moan issuing forth shortly after. Santana's skin is painted with thin layer of sweat as her arms give out and she falls atop Brittany's body. Brittany can feel Santana breathing hard; feel her own heart pounding just as powerfully against her ribcage.

She lets the other woman calm, drawing the blankets snuggly about them both. It is warm in the tent, heady, their bodies sticky beneath the coverings. Santana never wishes to move, content to forever rest atop Brittany as she is, spent and feeling as though her mind has yet to return to it's rightful place within her head. It's not a horrid predicament, and in fact if she could prolong this high she would. _All the better the next time_ , she thinks, grinning lazily as she curls against Brittany's body. She's too tired to move now, that want that was burning so fervently within her now quenched. An inkling of it remains, slowly fueling itself back to life.

She hopes Brittany's not too upset with her, knowing how much the woman has been craving similar release. _Just give me a moment_ , she thinks to herself. Though the way in which Brittany holds her, close and yet relaxed, her fingers drawing soft patterns along her arm and back, Santana knows she's contented to remain where she is. God, how she loves her so.

And Brittany is, she is more than content to hold Santana as she surrenders to sleep. The patterns she traces on Santana's skin are a memory of the motions that brought the woman such utter pleasure. She wants to try them again, more assured this time in her touch. And even though Santana's skin tastes of bandages she's sure the wet heat of her center will not disappoint. Not even the fatigue loosening her muscles from her arduous day can bring her mind to stop thinking about how she will lay with Santana next.

Which brings another, quite different, matter to her thoughts.

"San?" Brittany calls for her quietly, not wishing to disturb her from the beginnings of sleep. But what she has to say is of vital importance and she knows Santana will sleep better knowing so.

"Hmm?" is the drowsy response she's given along with a sloppy kiss laid against her neck.

Brittany smiles, hugging Santana close. "I just want you to know that Lucy's hibernating," she tells her. "If you feel anything it's just me."

Santana's eyes open at the remark and she stares blankly at the tent wall for a moment. Her heart begins to feel warm, a smile forming to her lips as she picks her head up and looks down upon Brittany. "I love you an utterly unfathomable amount."

"You can count them all for me if you'd like," Brittany grins. "I love you so much I think I'd not fall asleep listening."

"I thought counting bored you," Santana chuckles.

"Not love counting," Brittany replies. "Love counting sounds _amazing_."

Santana's once amused expression turns serious. "If I do this for you, you can't tell Puckerman," she tells her, voice low, a secret of whispered words. "Or Michael. Make that _anyone_."

"Why would I?" Brittany asks, confused by her need for discretion. These numbers surely couldn't be that private.

"You've made it a habit of these things not staying so secret," Santana mentions with a rather pointed look. After a beat she lets out a sigh. "Just please Britt, let this be between us."

And thus Brittany must inquire, her own tone conspiratory, "Does it involve being naked?"

"We kind of already are," Santana chuckles. She brushes a kiss to Brittany's lips, settling her chin down atop folded arms over Brittany's chest. "Anyway, there's this poem, it's entirely mediocre and foolishly sentimental and yet for some reason I think of you and it's of love, yes, and in a matter of speaking counting but it's—"

"Is the poem as long as your explanation for why you're so embarrassed to recite it to me?" Brittany interrupts, smirking.

Santana's cheeks darken. "I'm not embarrassed," she mutters. "It's just very… un-me."

Brittany presses a light kiss to her forearm. "I'd very much like to hear it," she whispers. "Recite it for me?"

"That is the point of all this," Santana says with a roll of her eyes.

"You're dillydallying," Brittany teases.

And so Santana recites the poem, reluctant at first until she realizes Brittany is listening intently upon her every word. For a poem supposedly about counting there are hardly any numbers, Brittany thinks. She doesn't much understand it, the words a might outdated but the rhyme nice. What she does understand is the tone Santana's voice drops to, the small, subtle quiver in her words. Her gaze never strays from her own, so intent the verses carry from her heart to the one below. There's a small pocket of tears collecting in her eyes the softer her voice grows. And when she finishes, reaching up to catch their fall Brittany stops her, wiping them from her cheeks carefully instead.

She asks Santana if she will recite it again.

And Santana consents.

She'll gladly recite the silly thing as many times as Brittany wishes.

> _How do I love thee? Let me count the ways._   
>  _I love thee to the depth and breadth and height_   
>  _My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight_   
>  _For the ends of Being and ideal Grace._   
>  _I love thee to the level of everyday's_   
>  _Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light._   
>  _I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;_   
>  _I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise._   
>  _I love thee with a passion put to use_   
>  _In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith._   
>  _I love thee with a love I seemed to lose_   
>  _With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,_   
>  _Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose,_   
>  _I shall but love thee better after death._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sonnet 43 by Elizabeth Barrett Browning


	16. Before the Dawn

The hour is early when Santana wakes, bleary-eyed with her belly a knotted mess of aches. She's on her back, staring up at the weathered canvas tent top as she squirms into a more comfortable position, hoping to alleviate some of the muscle pains along her abdomen. Yet even with the discomfort she knows it can't be too long till morn is upon them. The tent is still shrouded in darkness; chirps of the night critters hushed with the impending light of dawn. It makes for a blank opus in the air her empty stomach is more than pleased to fill, grumbling loud in the quiet of the tent as her hunger pangs finally become too strong to ignore. Santana twists against the cramp blooming in her gut and prays Brittany hasn't heard, or worse inquires into the reason for such disturbing noise. Having to explain how she's barely been able to keep her food down since Brittany left will only cause the woman needless grief.

_And it matters not anymore_ , Santana thinks, not now that Brittany is here beside her and come dawn they will be sharing breakfast, together, _undisturbed,_ their pretenses of the past forgotten. Santana's looking forward to that bowl of bland cornmeal, far more than she feels she's looked forward to anything in a long while, short of Brittany's safe return. It's silly, she knows, feeling so eager at the prospect of sharing such a simple act. But it will be the first time she can enjoy a meal with Brittany as a free woman without fear of retribution from him… from _anyone_.

The sun can't rise soon enough.

Her stomach rumbles, another loud groan echoing into the silence of the night. Santana curses beneath her breath and brings a hand down over her belly, hoping to quell any more protests with firm pressure. She hopes her traitorous stomach hasn't bothered Brittany. If anything she's the one in need of a full night's rest. Even as Brittany drifted to sleep Santana could see the beginnings of exhaustion swelling in the tender skin beneath her eyes. It worried her then and still does even now.

_How much had Brittany slept while she was away, if at all?_

_Could she not manage to close her eyes long enough? Forgotten how important sleep was?_

… _Was she truly that worried?_

Santana need not answer the questions, knowing full well what the bags beneath Brittany's eyes entail. They're not facing one another but she can feel Brittany's body heat against her left side. The full length of her side, she realizes as a warmth settles in her cheeks and cramps in her stomach depart in favor of a familiar slow burn. They are each still nude beneath the cover of the coats and blankets, their clothes scattered amidst the tent. That is aside from the socks Brittany dons. Santana can feel one pressed against her left foot. She smiles recalling how Brittany hadn't even thought to remove them yet was vehemently adamant to shed her shirt around the third or fourth, though fairly less enthused, recitation of the sonnet.

"It's not fair to you," Brittany had said as she popped open the last remaining buttons and slipped the uniform down off her shoulders. "You can't be naked alone. There's the law to uphold an' all."

Santana hadn't the heart to question such obviously flawed reasoning.

If Brittany wished to shed her shirt, she wasn't about to stop her in the least.

That would have been the most flawed reasoning of all.

Once the shirt was discarded Brittany settled back beside her, the beginnings of sleep weighing down upon her eyelids. Her smile never waned though, even as her eyes began to slowly close. She muttered drowsy wishes for a good day to come, for home… for Emily. Santana simply held her, too afraid to move lest Brittany wake. She didn't allow herself to follow into dreams until she could feel the slowed rate of Brittany's heart.

She doesn't want to wake her now, but there's a strange ache in her chest, a heaviness of sorts she feels will only fade upon sight of her bedmate.

So it is with much relief that as Santana turns toward her left side Brittany remains sleeping. Peacefully so, at that. She's sprawled on her stomach, one hand tucked beneath her head and the other loosely folded against Santana's upper arm. She can feel Brittany's soft breaths, warm in their touch as they tickle against her bare shoulder. And even with half of Brittany's face obscured, squashed more apt the term, against the scarf and her hair a mussed mess atop her head Santana thinks she's never quite seen anything so perfect.

She rolls her eyes at the foolish sentimentality of that thought. But she'll be damned if she recants it. Brittany is perfect. It is the truest thing she knows.

The pressure in her chest hasn't faded; it has amplified somehow with the need to touch her.

Careful so as to not wake her –though she doubts Brittany will be woken so easily after another gregarious cramp sounds from her stomach– Santana reaches forward, tucking some of Brittany's hair back behind her ear from where it rests across her face. Brittany's nose scrunches as she does so, her hold upon Santana's arm tightening as she burrows deeper into the bedroll. She relaxes not a second later, a contended sigh of an exhale the only sign she remains dreaming.

Santana grins, victorious in her gamble.

That is until Brittany cracks her only visible eye open, the other obscured in the scarf yet. She blinks a few times, vision adjusting to the darkness and the blurred silhouette of Santana lying close beside her. A small, sleepy smile begins to form at the corner of her mouth once her vision focuses. She's never seen Santana look so at peace, the rare sight of her dimples now on full display.

"I'd apologize for waking you," Santana says quietly, a telling hint of playfulness upon her tone. "But I'm not really all that sorry at the moment."

She is sorry, however, when her stomach moans yet again and Brittany's expression veers toward fretful.

"You're hungry," Brittany notes, eyes softening as she moves to sit up. "San, when was the last time—"

Santana quiets her worries with a kiss, just a press of her lips against Brittany's. It's chaste in touch, but lingers as Santana moves closer, pushing gently against Brittany's shoulder until she reclines back into the bedroll once more. Santana pulls away, hovering just above Brittany as she smiles down at her. "Don't worry, we'll be having breakfast soon."

Brittany's eyes brighten considerably, a hesitant smile now upon her lips. "Together?"

Santana dips down, brushing a kiss below Brittany's ear. "Mmhmm," she hums, planting another low on her jaw.

"I'd really like that," Brittany tells her softly, eyes falling closed as Santana continues in a delicate path down her neck. "And I like what you're doing now too."

Santana chuckles against Brittany's rapidly warming skin. "Me too, Britt."

Her fingers just begin to graze across Brittany's stomach when there's a quick rap against the top of the tent's support post followed by a terse order of, " _Ready_."

Brittany's nose crinkles as she tries to reason the command, let alone the odd hour of the instruction. There is only ever one reason to be called up at such a time of night, one she tries so hard never to think about. Combat is the one intricacy of war she never wishes to experience again. But the command that has been thrust upon her ensures that a battle is eminent.

Yet this call to arms is different. Calm. Too simple in it's instruction. Quiet. If there is one thing Captain Hartman is not, it is a reserved man. His command to arms is always shouted at the very top of his large, thunderous lungs. She doesn't hear him ordering soldiers about… She doesn't hear a thing aside from the quick patter of feet beyond the tent and the stilling silence in the night air surrounding them. There are no chirps of the riverbed cicadas, no calls of the barn owls living in the woods nearby. The quiet is most unsettling of all.

Brittany remains still even as Santana sits up in the bed, hearing the same knock being placed against the neighboring tent. The rustle of bedrolls quickly follows it as the men awaken, their tired voices concerned as they address their tent mates. She hugs the blankets close to her chest, heart rate quickening. _This cannot be happening again_ , she thinks. _Not so soon._ Her hand searches for Brittany's along the bedroll, eyes soon turning down upon the woman.

Brittany is already staring up at her, breath held, bewildered and alert.

A shot is fired into the night and both jolt at the sudden blast.

Then a curse is muttered from a man standing just beyond the brink of their tent. The word is unrecognizable, dialect odd. Santana sucks in a sharp lung full of air, her skin prickling with gooseflesh. Her eyes never leave Brittany's, not even as the blue of Brittany's eyes pale, her pupils shrinking tight with anxiety.

The voice is layered thick with the drawl of the South.

A cry is issued into the night, hollered loud by one of the neighboring soldiers, " _REBS!_ "

Brittany's eyes widen at the call, throat swelled shut by the implication of the warning. Santana's nails dig deep into the calloused skin of Brittany's palm, her heart now hammering a rapid pattern against her ribs. Another shot is quickly fired, the neighbor's scream tearing after into the air. Blood splatters against the tent top, a dull thud of sound meeting their ears when his body smacks against the ground outside Brittany's tent.

Shouts are heralded into the night. Southern and Northern alike.

Then anarchy engulfs the lane.

The sound of gunfire explodes all around them, bullets easily tearing through the top of Brittany's tent. She grabs Santana round the waist and pulls her roughly back down to the bedroll. There's no time to think, not when her clothes are being shoved into her hands and Santana's mouth is moving but no words seem to be meeting Brittany's ears. Brittany's unsure the sounds of battle are muffling Santana's words or if Santana's voice has become just as lost as her own. The only sounds able to work past Brittany's tongue are a series of garbled sputters, unintelligent and helpless. Santana seems to understand, even with her eyes consumed with panic. She helps Brittany slip into her shirt, doing the buttons up haphazardly, off by at least four positions. Santana can't stop her hands from shaking as she grabs for her own dress next.

Carelessly clothed they stumble out from the tent, hands clutched tightly; bodies crouched low to the ground, the laces of their boots trailing undone behind them.

Men clad in Northern uniform are firing upon each other, the grey of Southern soldiers indiscernible in the bleak night. Nonexistent in reality. It is only once Brittany is torn from Santana's side by the folly of a young soldier tripping above them that Santana realizes the veracity of that thought. There is no difference in the men fighting; no discernible way to pinpoint the enemy from a friend. They wear the jackets of the Union with purpose, firing upon any man clambering from out a tent or donning a heavy blue coat.

A deceitful ambush.

Nearly perfect in execution.

Another soldier springs over top them, rifle brandished high as he dives into the fray. Whilst he plows headlong into combat others scramble to escape the deadly fights breaking out along the lane and spilling deeper into the camp. Santana takes hold of Brittany's hand and pulls them up to their feet. They cannot stay here; they need to run.

Her feet forge a path straight for the field hospital, eyes focused ahead and not upon the massacre surrounding them. Brittany keeps pace, pushing aside men in their way, desperate to reach a safe haven.

" _Santana! Britt_!" Noah is shouting for them, shoving aside soldiers amassing in the lanes as he hurries toward them. Santana is relieved to see him, heart skipping several beats as he clears the last of the men. Her stomach drops upon sight of the spare musket he tosses to Brittany's chest. "You'll need that."

Brittany fumbles with the gun, unwilling to let go of Santana's hand. "I can't shoot anyone!" she cries out, stomach knotting with dread. She forces the rifle back toward Noah but he gives a shake of his head, eyes softening and he pushes it back into her arms.

"Not to fire," he explains, expression grave. "So that one of our own doesn't confuse you for one of _them_! Though use it if you need."

" _I won't_ ," is Brittany's adamant reply. She's never once had to fire a weapon and the mere thought of ending a life stabs something agonizingly fierce into her chest.

Her attention is averted by a familiar voice, one she and Noah have been trained to adhere. They can hear Captain Hartman, just off in the distance, hollering orders to his company from atop his riled horse. It's impossible to decipher his words over the rounds of gunfire and shouts of dying men.

Noah grabs both women, pulling them close. "Get up to the hill! _Anyplace_ safe!" He tells them loudly, voice wavering. There's tears in his eyes when he steps away, a stark contrast to the confidence he wears upon his lips. "I'll find you! Promise!"

Brittany can barely manage to nod; the gun in her arms is suddenly the heaviest burden she feels she's ever carried. She bites her lip to keep it from quivering so, her own eyes clouded with tears as Noah takes off in a sprint to join the battle.

He's gone from sight before she can even manage a word for his own safety.

Brittany cannot move, gripped in a dizzying spell of absolute terror. She feels as though her feet have been buried deep into the soil, heart pounding so loud she can hear the blood rushing in her ears.

"Come on, Brittany!" Santana tugs upon her arm, leading her back in the direction of the field hospital. Brittany stumbles behind her, eyes riveted to the last place in the fray where Noah was visible. She prays for his safety, willing with all her might that he makes it from this night alive. Santana halts not a second later, gripping hard to Brittany's hand. The clatter of horse hooves rumbles along the ground, Santana is momentarily shaken imagining a Southern cavalry now upon them. She whirls on her feet, barely managing to pull Brittany aside in time before the Union horses dash by, riderless and frightened. Piedmont among the herd.

Brittany's heart sinks. She moves to give chase but Santana pulls her back, shaking her head quickly in lieu of words. The look upon Brittany's face is heartrending; her own chest constricts knowing they need to move. Cavalry soldiers sprint by, torches wielded high in their hands. They knock against the women's sides as they pass, desperate to catch their steeds, unfocused upon the bands of men firing upon one another around them.

One is shot, his torch flung from his hands onto a nearby tent as he crashes down to the ground. The flames are quick to erupt up the canvas, spreading fast to the next tent in line. The blaze is hot against Santana's skin, her already heated blood all the more frantic in its course through her veins. She breathes hard, eyes darting across the lane for an escape.

A deafening blast sounds from the nearby line of trees. Cannon fire. The cold of the night air feels blistering against her heated skin awaiting its impact.

Brittany sees it first, just a blur of motion across the dark sky. She yanks Santana into her body. The cannon round screams overhead before barreling through the inferno of tents and slamming hard into the ground just a few feet from Captain Hartman and his horse. There's an explosion of dirt sent into the air, a dozen men nearby thrown from their feet if not torn asunder by the impact. Brittany turns from the carnage, burying her face against Santana's hair, unwilling to see the fate of her Captain and his loyal companion. Her stomach convulses, bile rising in her throat. Santana throws an arm over Brittany's shoulders, pulling her upright before she can lose her stomach to the ground. Brittany can feel a solid, grounding kiss being pressed against her jaw. She turns to Santana, just wishing for this all to end, for them to crawl back into their bedroll and wake from this nightmare.

But Santana's gaze speaks of their reality; of her fear for their safety. She squeezes tight to Brittany, ensuring the cap atop her head is snug. They need to make it to the field hospital. They cannot leave without Michael.

"Don't let go!" Santana is shouting at her to be heard over the chaos. Brittany nods, holding Santana's hand and the rifle close. They hurry across the smoldering remains of the still-burning tents, ignoring the bloodied bodies of men littering the ground. Brittany whispers a prayer for Burt as they run. She hopes the Southern force hasn't made it into the center of camp yet; his tent should still be untouched. She cannot leave him behind.

"Burt!" she shouts to Santana, hoping just the name will convey her wish. Santana nods, understanding, her eyes riveted to the horizon.

A young soldier crashes into their path, eyes flashing with panic and a stolen saber clutched in shaking hands. His gaze locks upon the gun in Brittany's arms, nothing aside from the threat registering in his head. He hears not Santana's scream for his halt, only sees another supposed ally moving toward him.

He won't hesitate again.

Brittany pushes Santana behind her just as his saber slices down through the sleeve of her coat and into her forearm. Her scream is caught in her throat, a blinding rush of pain flooding her senses.

Her rifle clatters to the ground, forgotten.

The soldier realizes his mistake as his eyes register the make of the weapon and the winter coat upon her frame. He withdraws the saber, a whimpered cry of pain finally spilling from Brittany's lips.

He stumbles back, pale, stammering pathetically, "I-I'm sorry! I'm—"

" _I'LL KILL YOU!"_ Santana screams, rage swelling within her as she lunges at him.

But strong fingers clutch to her arm, pulling her back. "No..." Brittany whispers, her grip weakening. The eruption of fury within Santana ebbs instantly, her wide eyes turning from the soldier to Brittany.

He takes off, leaving the two alone once more.

The lane is empty. Roaring fires grow unimpeded, devouring the camp as the flames rise high into the night air. Dawn is forgotten in favor of burning orange and clouds of blackest smoke. Great swatches of firelight ripple across the path and deserted tents, ash falling from the infernos. A few pieces stick to Santana's lashes and she blinks back the tears in her eyes, not caring for the destruction rupturing around them.

Her gaze is riveted to Brittany's arm, where the sleeve has been consumed, _soaked_ through with blood.

"Brittany…" she utters her name as if the mere sound of it pains her. Santana gingerly pries Brittany's arm from where she clutches it to her chest, heart twisting as Brittany lets out a hiss of pain. " _I'm s-sorry,_ " she murmurs brokenly, her eyes lifting to meet Brittany's own. "I have to see if—" the sentence is left unspoken, the ache the words would bring too much to bear. She gently pulls back the sleeve to Brittany's coat, careful not to aggravate the wound beneath any more than necessary. Brittany's hand is stained red with blood already; the wound is obviously in dire need of attention.

Gunfire whirs pass them, far too close. They can't stay here. Santana clamps her hand firmly over the coat sleeve and wound, ignoring the holler of pain from Brittany.

She knows she needs to get her to the field hospital immediately. Before—

"Am I…" Brittany begins to ask, turning away to quell the wave of nausea that erupts in her gut. Her eyes find those of Santana's, pained more by the sheer dread held within. "Am I to b-be like Sam?"

Santana immediately shakes her head quickly. "No, no; I'll _fix_ this," she tells her, voice thick, a sob caught in her throat. " _I swear it_. Come on!"

They begin walking quickly, Santana never once letting go of Brittany's arm.

"I don't feel good no more," Brittany tells her, leaning into Santana's side. Her teeth are clenched tight against the throbbing sting of pain rolling up her arm; it's unlike any she's ever felt before. She feels unsteady, sick. "Santana…"

Santana wraps her free arm behind Brittany's lower back, holding her secure. "We're almost to the field hospital, just a bit more," she tells her, relived when the top of the tent is finally in sight. _Only a few yards more_ , she tells herself. _A few yards more and you can help her_. Brittany sags against her; Santana fears shock is soon to set in. She shakes Brittany, increasing their pace. "Stay with me Britt, _please_. Almost there!"

Two rounds of cannon fire explode in the distance; upon impact a shower of flames cascades from the sky. The air sizzles, thick ash sucked into their lungs as they breathe. Brittany coughs, slumping into Santana's side. Santana strains beneath Brittany's full weight, willing her body to gather strength. Sweat pours from her face, lungs starved for air. _Just a few paces more…_

Her body gives out entirely as they pass through the tent flaps, both of them falling to the floor inside the field hospital.

"God, _Santana_!"

_Michael_ , Santana thinks, mind reeling as his voice registers in her head.

"Get him to the estate! _NOW_!"

She doesn't know what he's shouting about but can feel someone hoisting her up to unsteady feet, a biting smell quick to invade her senses. She snaps to, coughing, lungs desperate to expel the ash trapped inside. Michael holds her upright to one side, in the hands of the nurse ahead is an uncorked bottle of whiskey. The pungent alcoholic odor still stings in her nose as she breathes hard. Alert, her eyes sharpen and grow wide as she stands erect.

"Are you all right?" Michael asks her, taking her face between his hands as he inspects her eyes. "I don't think you concussed. Can you focus on my nose? Good. Left ear?" As her eyes move toward his ear he pulls her into a tight hug. " _Thank god you made it_."

Santana returns the hug but for a second before pushing him away, craning her neck in search of Brittany.

Michael immediately knows who she is looking for. "We're moving everyone to the Banks estate, just up on the hill," he explains, leading Santana through the throngs of patients hastily being moved. Cots are overturned, medical supplies spilled out from their crates across the floor. A few nurses hurry forth, expressions frantic as they usher patients out the tent. "It's safer there, Major Keller is worried the cannon fire is getting too close."

"Where is she?" Santana asks, growing ever more impatient and ever more anxious.

"We'll tend to her once we're at the estate," Michael assures.

Santana grabs him by the arm, spinning him to face her as she snarls out, " _Where is she_?"

Michael points off to the side, where sure enough Brittany is held up between two medics. Her head sags against her chest, arm wrapped in a strip of thin fabric, one Santana knows is not enough quell the blood flow. It's already stained red.

Cannon fire shakes the foundations of the massive tent.

"We can't help her _here_ , Santana," Michael whispers to her earnestly, warily eyeing the oil lamps hanging from their supports against the tent posts. They sway from their rigging, precariously close to dropping. The field hospital will be lost in minutes if even but one flame is to touch upon the canvas. Major Keller is right in ordering everyone to abandon, he thinks.

Santana sees not the peril in the tent, focused as she is upon Brittany. She shoves Michael from her path and runs headlong for her.

"Leave him!" she shouts to the medics, waving frantically for them to stop. One peers at her from over his shoulder, recognition instantly causing his steps to halt. His partner stills, ensuring the soldier held between them is kept balanced. Santana hurries forward, fingers quick to feel for a pulse along Brittany's neck. It's there; considerably slow but _there_. Relief overwhelms her as she motions down to a nearby cot. The medics obey, needing no further instruction. They are careful as they place Brittany down, mindful of the way Santana squats between the soldier's legs, her hands firm in their grip upon Brittany's jaw. They step aside, awaiting their next command, hands nervously fidgeting by their sides.

"Help the others!" Michael tells them as he hurries over. They nod, quickly moving aside to assist the remaining men.

Santana pats Brittany's cheek, urging her eyes to open. Outside the gunfire draws nearer, cannon blasts shaking the tent with more force.

Michael drops to his knees beside Santana, laying a pleading hand atop her arm. "We need to go, Santana!"

There are tears back in her eyes as the turns to him. "She needs sutures! You _know_ she does. Bandages won't stop this bleeding! _Help me_."

"If we stay any longer—"

"They won't fire upon a field hospital!" She screams at him, desperate for the time she needs to help Brittany. "It's inhumane!"

The hand upon her arm tightens, Michael moving closer, his eyes earnest as he implores to what he hope remains of her reason. "You weren't in the battle trenches, Santana," he tells her evenly, honest. "This matters not to them. So long as you are in their range of fire you are one less Northerner they need worry about in the world. This tent will _burn_ if so much as one of those lamps falls due to their barrage."

"Only a few minutes, _please_ ," Santana begs, voice trembling. She understands his words but she cannot leave Brittany in this state. Not with a pulse so weak she fears the trip to the estate will surely be her last minutes upon this land. "Michael, I _need_ to stop the bleeding. If something were to happen, _sepsis_ —"

Michael's stomach knots upon hearing word of the infectious ailment. It is a grave possibility, and Brittany's pallid complexion is already evidence that she's suffering from significant blood loss. He nods. "Get her to wake, I'll fetch a clean kit."

He takes off into the tent, kicking over boxes and cots in search of the necessary supplies. The patients have all been cleared, no one remaining save for the three of them. Santana turns back to Brittany, patting harder against her cheek this time as she holds firm pressure over the wound. The blood is still seeping freely, even through the thick layer of her coat sleeve. "Come on, Britt," she beseeches, praying for those blue eyes to open. "I need you awake. _Please_."

Santana cringes before landing a smack against Brittany's cheek.

Brittany startles, inhaling sharply. Her eyes open but a fraction as she breathes out, "San…"

Santana surges forward, kissing her hard. Brittany can feel warm lips against hers, desperate in their touch. The familiar sensation of warmth fills her stomach as she leans into the kiss. It tastes of salt, wet with Santana's tears but in that moment she feels not the burning ache rendered in her arm. She breathes in deeply as Santana pulls away, the pain once again returning.

"I'm going to fix this," Santana tells her, tearing off the bandage with a yank before easing up the sleeve of her coat. She needs to see this wound, the extent to the damage wrought by that idiotic boy. If she ever sees the likes of him again—

"I want to go home," Brittany confesses, crying as her nerves spike with renewed biting vigor. " _Please_ … can we go?"

Santana ceases in her work, hands quick to frame Brittany's cheeks as she presses their foreheads together. "We're going to leave soon, Britt," she speaks in a hushed earnest whisper, a kiss briefly planted against parted lips. As she pulls back she can see Brittany struggling to keep her eyes open. "I promise we'll be home soon, just stay awake for me, all right?"

"I'm trying…" Brittany whispers, eyes widening for but a second before growing heavy once again. Santana gives Brittany's head a gentle shake. Brittany swallows hard, eyes blinking open quickly.

"Stay with me," Santana whispers as Michael returns with kit in hand. Santana is quick to get to work, passing the needle and spindle to Michael for threading whilst she fills an empty syringe with opium. _Just enough for the pain to cease_ , she thinks, knowing Brittany must be alert enough for them to get her safely up the hill. Brittany sways in front of her, injured arm hugged protectively to her chest. Santana reaches forward, holding her steady. Michael quickly rolls up the rest of the tattered sleeve of Brittany's shirt, revealing the ruinous nature of the wound. It is a deep, ugly gash, ragged in its path through the layers of muscle down to her bone. A cold sweat breaks across Santana's forehead at the sight. She's not the time to properly tend to the injury now, not in the way Brittany needs care.

A booming round of gunfire blares from outside the tent, oil lamps rattling in the trembling wake.

Santana stills her lungs and waits for the shaking to subside before she pierces Brittany's upper arm with the syringe. As the morphine enters Brittany's blood she grows slack in her posture, the once rigid arc of her spine curving as her shoulders slump and the taut line of her jaw loosens. Santana tosses the empty syringe aside, relieved by Brittany's more relaxed state. Michael is quick to hand her the suture needle, thread ready for use. Brittany breathes in deeply and a dull sting of pain erupts over her wound as Michael pours a great deal of alcohol atop.

"Can I have some?" Brittany asks, wishing nothing more than to pour the liquid down her throat and make this all go away.

"It's for infection," Santana explains, though softly Brittany notes, not in the brusque way she is wont to do with most, if not all, her patients. She barely feels the needle entering her skin or the kiss Santana brushes against her cheek afterward. Michael watches Brittany's face raptly, his eyes sharp, checking for something she can't be sure of. It's as if he's afraid she will die, right here in front of him. She holds his gaze for a while, trying to muster a smile to her lips. He must see it for he gives her a shaky one in return.

Santana remains focused, deftly stitching up Brittany's wound as best she can. She's only on her fifth line when Burt enters the field hospital, limping considerably, a frantic expression upon his strained face.

"Girls!" he half laughs and shouts as his gaze lands upon them, relieved to have found them at last. He hobbles toward them, skipping every third or so step along his bum knee. Santana never once looks up, though Brittany meets his eyes, her own relief tantamount. She reaches for him with her good hand as he nears and Burt clasps his own around hers, wheezing as he tries to calm himself. He's so glad to have found her, both of them. His gaze settles upon where Santana works and he must resist the gasp wishing to issue forth. "Brittany… good god…"

"She'll be all right," Santana says, happy that he's found them but unwilling to give him more of her attention. Brittany's muscle is a mess of tatters, her blood still filling the wound even with the tourniquet Michael saw fit to wrap about her bicep. "She'll be all right," she repeats, though knows it is more for her benefit than Burt's.

There's a low whistle heard outside before the ground shakes upon impact of a cannon blast into the neighboring tent.

" _Santana_ ," Michael warns.

"I've not finished!" Santana exclaims, trying to be heard over an explosion from down the lane. The field hospital rattles in its wake, Brittany hissing in pain as the needle in Santana's hand accidentally pierces deeper into her skin than need be.

Santana curses beneath her breath, stealing an apologetic glance up toward Brittany. Their gazes meet briefly, the smallest of brave smiles forming at the corner of Brittany's lips. A calm settles in Santana's heart at the look, chest growing warm. The welcome feeling is lost, replaced by the pierce of fear as another blast of cannon fire screams through canvas tent above, ripping through the roof before gutting the main support beam. The wood splinters, exploding in a shower of chips and debris. The lamps suspended from the post line crash to the floor, fire quick to engulf the sections of tent dangling from the open ceiling above. Within seconds the blaze rages high, consuming the treated canvas material in a wave of heat. It burns against Santana's face as she shields Brittany's arm from the sparks and bites off the remaining suture thread from the needle. She isn't anywhere near finished, but they must move. Now.

" _GET OUT_!" Burt is shouting to be heard over the roar of the flames as he pulls both women up to their feet. A large section of tent comes undone, a wave of heat rolling across their bodies as it falls to the ground. Santana grabs for the roll of bandages in the medical kit, quickly wrapping Brittany's arm as Burt and Michael guide them out the tent.

Outside the tent the battle rages on, Northern soldier pitied against Southern, coats shed in the heat of combat and flames. Santana holds Brittany close as Michael and Burt carve a path ahead through the outer fringe of the fighting. In the distance she can see the hill they make headway toward, the lights of the Bates estate glowing strong even from afar.

"We're almost home, Britt!" Santana says loudly, hoping Brittany has heard her over the chaos engulfing them. There's a slight nod from Brittany, and the hand she's clasped on Santana's shoulder tightens.

Michael quickly swoops to pick up a musket from a fallen soldier, slinging it over his shoulder as he pushes onward. Burt's arm is slung around Brittany's back, his limp slowing their pace but welcome in Brittany's indisposed condition. A few soldiers collapse to the ground in their path, groaning, clutching at gunshot wounds embedded deep in their thighs. Michael steps over them, wishing to offer them help but knowing there is little to be done.

Death is already thick in the air, in the smell of blood upon the hands of many and in the smoke burning in their lungs. Santana looks over her shoulder at the carnage, terrified to find they've barely made it but a few yards from the field hospital.

As if by purpose the army pushes back, the few steps that once separated them from the fight lost. Michael is but an arm's length away as men converge around them, his dark eyes quickly overtaken with panic as he turns back to Santana. A man swings at him, Michael ducks and quickly lands a punch square to the soldier's face. Santana feels large arms wrap about her middle, Michael's name upon the tip of her tongue when she's pulled out from the mass of bodies.

It is the last time she sees him.

"Michael!" she screams, reaching toward him but he is lost to the battle.

"He'll find us!" Burt shouts, groaning once he lets both women go to clutch his knee. Brittany pulls Santana to her as another cannon flies by, groaning as her sutures dig into her sore flesh. She doesn't let go, hugging her even as the ground shakes terribly and she can feel Santana's tears hot against her neck.

"This is because of _you_!" a voice bellows from between the tents to their side. Santana looks up, blood running cold as her father limps forward. In his hand he clutches a pistol, blood smeared across his forehead and dripping from one ear. He looks crazed as he motions at the war spreading around them with the gun.

And even over to roar of flames and gunfire his voice rings clear.

"This is His retribution! _Your_ sins being punished! _WE BURN FOR YO—!"_ His spine snaps back, shouts drowned by the errant shot that bursts through his chest. A splutter of blood expels from his throat, eyes wide as his legs give and he crashes, dead, to the ground.

Santana cannot tear her eyes from the sight of him; horror struck at the way his hand still twitches even as the life fades from his dark eyes. Gunfire whizzes overhead, the whistle of minié rounds a crucial cue that they must make haste. Brittany sags against her side, the full weight of her body taxing even in Santana's heightened state of mind. Burt alleviates some of the burden, hoisting Brittany up beneath his own arm.

Not one more thought is spared for her father.

With one arm wrapped securely around Brittany's waist and the other holding tightly to the woman's wrist slung across her shoulders, Santana gives nod to Burt and they make headway toward the hillsides. Men sprint by, orders screamed into the darkest of skies. Brittany breathes unevenly beside her, the bandages wrapped about her arm already soaked through and dripping down her fingers with fresh blood. Santana's heart twists painfully in her chest, knowing she needs to get Brittany to the makeshift hospital at the estate. She can see the lights of the house, a beacon burning bright atop the empty hillside.

Men stumble by, guns clenched in shaking hands as they run to enact the orders of their commanders. It is chaos, another cannon blasted in the distance collides headlong with a few soldiers Santana recognizes from Brittany's company. The sound of their bodies being torn asunder, bones cracking as dirt and blood is thrown into the smoky air, causes Santana's stomach to finally spill bile down to her feet.

Brittany holds fast, conscious thought returning as Santana doubles over beside her. Her vision is a blur of dizzying colors but her mind can grasp the smell now drifting up toward her. Her own stomach clenches, wishing to follow suite, but she forces the vomit down, willing the pain in her arm to subside and her thoughts to focus. The pain does not diminish; the sting of the gash nearly blinding at times even with the opium coursing through her blood. Splotches of white dance in her vision, Burt's hold upon her tightening. She reaches a hand forward, entirely unaware it is the one slick with her blood until the broken muscle in her arm protests firmly, a scream rendered from her throat as nausea overwhelms her and she falls down to a knee.

They both shout for her, but it is Santana's voice that registers most.

" _Brittany_!" It's a hoarse call, scared. She feels Burt's hands pulling her back up to her feet once again. Over top Brittany's head Burt's eyes meet Santana's. She can see forgiveness in his gaze, sorrow. Yet all is drowned by the utmost worry of a father.

Another round of gunfire tears through the air, the sting of a fresh slash cut through Santana's shoulder by a passing bullet. She bites her tongue hard, gripping firm to Brittany as she hauls the woman against her and hurries them down the lane. Her muscles strain, arms nearing the point of convulsing. Burt breathes words of encouragement, his own breath labored as they rush onward.

Brittany's cries are silent, tears thick in their relentless path down her dirtied cheeks.

Michael is gone, Noah is missing…

The low whistle of an approaching cannon round rings overheard, the hair along Santana's arms standing to attention. A stark blur of grey streaks across the sky before the cannon ball tears through the canvas of the armory tent.

There's a clatter of sound, the scraping of metal, a spark of ignition.

Santana barely has the time to throw herself over Brittany when a blast of heat burns against their backs, the sky an explosion of fire as they are thrown back by the blast.

Brittany is the first to stir, not second later. She groans as she forces herself upright, vision nothing but a disorienting vortex of fire and dirt. Her head is spinning, arm now numbed to pain against the adrenaline pumping furiously through her veins. Her voice feels foreign as it leaves her lips, Santana's name charred as it sounds.

"Santana...?" she calls, reaching blindly forward, coughing as smoke fills her lungs. "Burt?"

The briefest flash of a dirtied white skirt enters her sight, obscured as the dust settles around her once more. Brittany's heart stills. She crawls forward, ignoring the soldiers sprinting by, they're nothing but dark shadows against the clouds of smoke rolling through the lane; ghosts. Against the back of her neck she can feel the wind in their wake as they leap over top her. Her hair has come loose, whipping into her face. She cares not for where her cap has been lost, desperate to reach Santana's side.

"San...?" she coughs out, tears once more blurring her vision as the body remains unmoving, face-down in the dirt.

Brittany makes it to her side and uses what's left of her strength to roll Santana to her back. Something has impacted hard into Santana's head, blood matting the hair just over her right ear. Brittany reaches forward tentatively, touching just below the wound.

Santana lets out a hiss of pain, twisting upon the ground from the light touch. She feels as though a tent spike has been driven into her brain; the head pain is the worst she's ever had to endure. Her eyes open, squinting against the pulsing throb of ache rendered into her skull. Brittany sits beside her, face hovering mere inches above her… hair a wild mess tumbling down her head.

A female scream tears through the air. Down the lane a nurse is being dragged off, shrieking as she kicks against the men holding her captive. Santana knows the look upon those soldier's faces; she has had it focused upon her enough times for her gut to coil now even in remembrance. Nothing ever befell her but the nurse...They will force themselves upon that woman, without qualm or remorse.

Her dress feels heavy against her frame, a target if ever there was one. She swallows thickly, looking up at Brittany. She cannot let the same befall her. Not when she can be spared from the violence she's sure the nurse is now enduring. No one will think twice of her without the betraying locks of her long blonde hair.

A fallen southern soldier lies nearby and Santana is quick to pull his bowie knife free from his belt sheath. Brittany barely has time to react when Santana sits up, a moan of pain the only sound she's able to make. And then Santana hacks at Brittany's hair, cutting away long sections haphazardly until all that remains is a mess of short blonde that falls just against her brow. Brittany remains still as Santana works, knowing this moment was to come. She watches, despondent, as her hair falls, watches as it is consumed by the muddy ground.

_It will grow back_ , she tells herself. _Santana just wants me safe._

She cries silently nonetheless. _  
_

Santana tosses the knife aside, relieved for at least this moment. She wishes to collapse back to the ground, exhausted. She cannot run anymore; her head is still ringing from the blast and she's sure the hearing in her right hear has been damaged beyond repair. But Brittany takes her gently by the hand, tugging her up until they are both back upon their feet.

"I don't know where Burt is," Brittany tells her, pulling Santana along as she searches for him. He can't be too far, she thinks, hoping with all her heart he's all right. The smoke is still thick in the lane, hovering about without a lick of wind to scatter it to the heavens. She hears a groan from somewhere to her left, familiar in its gruffness.

Heart swelling, she pulls Santana in the direction of the sound.

Her head explodes with renewed pain not three steps later as the butt of a rifle collides solidly against its side. She bites down hard on her tongue as she's thrown back by the hit, colliding with Santana and causing them both to crash down to the ground. She can feel hands roughly taking hold of her coat as she's forced up to her knees. She sways, vision still swimming as she looks over toward Santana. She vaguely feels the cool tip of a bayonet against the back of her neck, only registers the look of absolute terror in Santana's eyes.

She wants to tell her this is all a dream, surely. They'll wake soon, and together they'll eat breakfast, the sun rising on a new day.

But she feels the pull of sleep weighing heavy upon her limbs and mind. So very faint...

"San…" Brittany whispers as her eyes flutter closed and she passes out, crumbling to the ground.

"Move not _one_ muscle, lass," speaks one of the Southerners behind.

The press of a rifle is foreign against Santana's back, her breathing staggered as her eyes remain upon Brittany. _Please, god_ , Santana prays, _let them leave her._

For she knows nothing could be worse than being the captured prisoners they now are.


	17. Love is not a Victory March

Nothing has prepared Santana for this moment. _As if anything could have_ , she thinks sardonically to herself, heart still racing wildly in her chest. She is coping as best she's able with her body upon the absolute brink of collapse whilst her mind relentlessly revisits the endless whir of gruesome scenarios she fears soon to unfold. She never imagined, not even in the darkest corners of her most depraved thoughts, that _this_ could be an actuality. Death surely, the most probable cause some disease. She wasn't much for imagining the more sordid details of her demise but being at war had them crossing her mind more often than not. It was hard not to ignore the men dying around her; at least a few passed everyday. But she has grown numb to finding their bodies come morn. It is a dawn routine, touching the necks of the sleeping patients, just waiting for the one with skin cool to her fingertips and the heart stilled beneath his ribs.

To die made sense.

But to be captured?

_Impossible._

Neither Brittany nor herself was to ever be on the field of battle; never within a mile of any fighting. And yet here she finds herself, head still throbbing from a wound she can't remember sustaining, ear clogged so thickly with a liquid she's sure must be blood per the warm way it seeps down her neck. And worst of all Brittany… Good, innocent, _tolerant_ Brittany lies unconscious not a foot away. Santana never prepared for this moment for it was never _to be_. But it is, and what more, it is so very frighteningly real. Every brush of warm wind from the fires that touches her cheek is seared, unforgettable, into her mind. Every blast of a cannon fired overhead stabs a painful rhythm in her ear. The smell of bitter smoke shall never leave her, nor the hint of blood she can taste upon her tongue.

And the sight of Brittany…

Santana closes her eyes tight.

There is a very real gun pressed solidly against Santana's back but it unnerves her not. She's grown accustomed to the feel of the metal in mere seconds. For with it upon her it cannot turn down to Brittany. And Santana wishes for nothing more than these men to forget who's fallen before them.

_Let them leave her_ , she wills silently, but more yet, _let her still breathe_. _Please_ …

Santana's eyes open and immediately find Brittany again. So riveted she is to ensuring the woman is alive that she's ceased focusing upon anything but her need to reach out and touch that pale skin, to make sure it is still warm beneath her fingers.

Brittany is so still, curled on the ground in the most twisted of positions. Santana cannot see her injured arm but knows from the contorted way Brittany's shoulders press against the dirt it must be trapped beneath her body. Her short hair is pushed forward, matted with sweat and soot where it falls just over her eyes. Her back does not rise or fall with life, her only visible cheek is devoid of its usual pink hue. But the pain once etched so deeply into her brow is gone, erased with coma. She looks so tranquil…

Santana's mouth has gone dry. The men behind her speak in hushed whispers but their words don't ever quite make it to her ears. All she hears is her own heart, the echo of it deafening as it reverberates in her head. Faster, more frantic, her own breaths stutter as they push in and out past her chapped lips. She can't control the panic seizing her heart or the hot tears now springing to her eyes. Brittany is so still… and yet…

There's a subtle movement of dirt beneath Brittany's nose, so slight Santana feels she's imagined the moment. But the soil is pushed again, a little farther this time.

Brittany still breathes.

Santana doesn't realize she's crying freely until she licks her lips and tastes the salt of her tears upon her tongue.

Brittany is still alive.

All else matters not.

Her knees give out finally and she falls back atop her heels.

"What'd I say about movin'!" One of the soldiers hollers down at her, forcing her back up to her knees once more. Santana's thighs are shaking, muscles straining to maintain her posture even as her body screams for release from this torment.

The rifle rises against her spine, a tremor provoked down her back as she shivers against the movement. It is both unwelcome and petrifying. _Do not move it toward her_ , she prays, still unwilling to look away from Brittany. The soldier hooks the tip of the rifle beneath her collar and gives a tug, "This here coat, it's yours?" he asks.

Santana nods, head pounding as she answers hoarsely, "Yes…"

He prods the gun into the back of her neck. "If you're lyin' to me—"

"It is mine! I swear it!" she tells him quickly, louder than she anticipated.

There's laughter meeting her ears, uneven in its pattern. She cannot tell how many are behind her, nor where they stand. Her entire world feels tilted all of the sudden, weight heavier on the right of her body. She gives her head a shake, regretting the move as pain spikes in her broken ear canal and a relentless thump of sorts hammers against her temples. She blinks back the tears collecting once more in her eyes, praying for Brittany to be left well and alone.

"A woman surgeon?" the soldier asks through sputtering chuckles. "And you reckon us the mad ones!"

"What of this one then?" the other man asks, kicking one of Brittany's legs.

Santana's vision tunnels, blood pumping fiercely through her veins as she exclaims, " _Leave him!_ "

The gun is driven into her back hard, nearly toppling her to the ground at the force. She holds herself steady, heart pounding furiously now in fear instead of rage.

" _Please_ ," she amends, hoping the quiver she can feel in her hands does not translate to her voice. "He's hurt and of no use to you, just leave him, _please_."

"My gun saw to that hurt all right," the soldier at her back says, voice layered with obvious pride. Santana bristles at the sound and digs her fists deep into her skirt. "I could leave him, but I don't believe you none, lass. This here coat _must_ be his, but I'll be damned if you prove otherwise, so get up."

Santana is pulled roughly to her feet, her arm taken by the soldier at her back. His hand wraps clear around her bicep, hold strong. She chances a glance up, surprised by the sheer height of the man. He very much reminds her of Finn but his height is where the similarities end. For this man's expression holds no capacity toward sympathy, his lips hidden beneath a thick black moustache. His eyes focus upon her, hardened and the color lost in the dark of the sky. Santana holds the gaze, unwilling to bend to his influence. Not even as his fingers squeeze around her muscles and she can feel the beginnings of bruises blooming across her skin.

" _I reckon you a liar and a harlot_ ," he snarls down at her before nodding toward his companion and waving his gun down to Brittany. "Pick that one up. Whichever one of 'em is the surgeon will fetch us a good bargain come the exchange."

She wants to ask him what he means but knows his temper is already strained from her resistance. So she watches, helpless, as the soldier hauls Brittany from the ground and up over his shoulder. Blood is still trickling from her arm, slower now as it drips down to the ground with even plops. Santana instantly moves to step closer but the hand upon her arm tightens, and she is forced to remain by the tall soldier's side.

"Please, his arm—" Santana begins to say but is cut off with a jab of an elbow hard into her flank. She bites her tongue to keep the groan from escaping her throat.

Then his voice washes over her, breath hot and unwelcome against her broken ear. "Speak another word and I leave your body here to _burn_."

She does not challenge him, simply nods her consent. He begins walking and she hurries to keep stride beside him as he leads her from out the battle tearing through the camp. Cannons are still being shot, the sound and smell of gunfire prevalent in the air. The war raging on.

Santana knows not where this soldier is taking her but wherever it is, she and Brittany are both going.

Santana doesn't know whether she's glad for it or not.

* * *

With the dawn has come the end of the battle. The South is victorious, what remains of the Northern brigade is either scattered to the forests, dead, or amassed in internment along the riverbank. It's hard to imagine this is the same place Brittany brought her. Was it truly only a week ago? Santana draws little warmth from the thought. The riverbank is a frigid place now, wind cold as it rolls off the frozen waters and licks at her skin. The beginnings of the morning sun's rays are just cresting over the hillsides, casting a pink hue against the plumes of dark smoke that drift and break overhead. Even the calls of the morning birds have been silenced, replaced with the soft crackle of dying fires in the distance.

The hush of the land chills her more than the breeze. It is as if it, too, mourns the losses of last night's battle.

Those she's surrounded by speak not a single word, heads bowed in defeat.

There are at least a thousand or more Northern men sitting just outside the edge of the tree line with her. Some sit clumped with friends, others shoulder-to-shoulder; backs pressed against backs, huddled close for warmth and solidarity. No one is left alone, not even those in need of a doctors hand. Santana can see the eyes of the men crouched beside their injured companions, gazes pleading with her to help.

There is little she can do though, not without her instruments.

She cannot help anyone.

It is a truth that pains her, deeply so. And thus she can do little more than express her apology in a look, and hope they understand. She's unwilling to rise from where she sits. She cannot abandon Brittany, not even for a minute. They are situated near the edge of the unspoken detention line. Her back is leaned against a tree, legs crossed in front of her with Brittany's head resting gently in her lap.

Santana's fingers continue in their slow path through Brittany's short hair, the same way they have been for over an hour now. Brushing hair back from her warm forehead and down past her left ear. Again, over and over to the point Brittany's hair has seemed to absorb the path and now falls naturally toward the side. Brittany hasn't stirred since the southern soldiers brought them to the riverbank and dumped her unceremoniously to the ground. Her brow knotted then, pained even in sleep. Santana lashed out at the soldier holding her, her nails able to render a series of scratches against his face before his fist met her stomach and she too joined Brittany upon the muddy riverbed.

There were only a handful of Northern men then, not one electing to help her as she dragged Brittany up to drier land. The men sat hunched with their legs drawn to their chests and eyes darting from the dark river water to the Southern guards posted in a perimeter a few yards around. She knows they considered fleeing, willing to risk crossing the frozen waters in lieu of remaining captive.

But they stayed and more men were brought in. More guards posted. A few brave enough to speak up asked what was to become of them but their questions were only met with stony silence and the occasional rifle butt to the gut. The men learned to keep quiet.

It was hopeless to even think of escaping.

There is nothing can be done. Nothing aside from wait.

Time passes slowly, the sun ever so dawdling in its ascent into a red sky. Santana looks down upon Brittany for what feels like the thousandth time, her fingers making their umpteenth journey through her hair. She checks her arm, the bandage having been retied the moment she settled her down. It's stopped bleeding, but the color has yet to return to Brittany's face, her heart still so weak as it beats against her chest.

"I'm so sorry, Britt," Santana tells her, an apology she knows is spoken to deaf ears. Brittany can no more feel her touch than she can hear her words. But there is some manner of peace in Santana whenever she speaks her regrets. As if simply acknowledging her wrong aloud will make the hurt it's caused just that much less. She regrets ever staying in that tent.

_Michael was right,_ she thinks _,_ resigned _._ They should have fled, wrapped Brittany's arm tight in whatever material was available and made run straight for the Bates estate. She knows the Southern force has not taken the makeshift hospital. She sees not the balding head of Major Keller among the captured men; he'd have been brought here for sure if the South had managed to seize the home.

…Or had all the hospital staff and patients perished in cannon fire?

Shot down before they even reached the hill?

The uncertainty of it all is what gives her regrets pause.

At least Brittany is with her now.

She has but that one comfort.

The silence is broken by the arrival of a new group of men. Santana cranes her neck to see over the heads of those scattered ahead of her. All she's able to glimpse are flashes of movement. From the sounds of it more of their own men are being brought to internment. Some struggle against their Southern captors, others stoic as they are pushed past the line of guards. There are only perhaps a dozen of them she thinks, counting at least seven Northern coats in varying stages of disrepair before her vision is blocked.

A few men sitting on the ground spring up, grins upon their faces as they embrace friends. Santana watches them, glad and envious of their reunions. The new captives seem no worse for wear, a few scratches and pulled muscles at most. The blood stained proudly upon their coats is obviously of southern kind.

Santana's breath catches as she realizes Noah is among them. Soldiers clap him upon the shoulder, no words exchanged aside from the unspoken given in nods of respect. His thoughts are elsewhere, nods misplaced as his eyes scan across the riverbed. Santana can see the taut line of his clenched jaw even from afar. Worry now creases his brow.

She wishes to call for him but feels her voice absent, the gleam of the Southern guards' guns silencing any greeting she could utter.

All she can offer is a raise of her hand and a hope he finds her.

And when Noah does spot her finally she thinks she's never seen him look so thankful. He makes his way through the crowds of men, grinning broadly as he hurries toward her. She's no idea why a smile comes to her own lips, but it does, his own only seeming to brighten more in reaction. He's by her side before she knows it, falling to his knees and wrapping her in a tight hug.

" _Thank god you're alive_ ," he whispers, voice thick with tears. He doesn't let go immediately, simply breathing in deep as he holds her close. _She's all right_ , he repeats to himself, elated to have found her. When he does pull back, he sees who is nestled in her lap and the question upon his mind is immediately answered. Cold is quick to replace the warmth that just mere seconds before flourished in his heart. He reaches out, tentative as he touches the tips of his fingers to Brittany's temple. "Santana," he says, swallowing hard as he looks back up into her eyes. "Is she…?"

Santana shakes her head, her voice lowered, tenuous, as she tells him, "She's just sleeping. One of our own, he had a _saber_ —"

Noah pulls her into another hug before she can even finish. Her arms wrap behind his back, her hold upon him tight. Fraught even with all her anxieties for his wellbeing. She can't describe how grateful she is that he's alive, let alone among the lucky few to have made it from the fight unharmed. As he pulls back she notices small cuts carved into the skin of his cheeks. Whether by blade or nails she's unsure, nor does she wish to imagine how they came to be.

"Have you seen Michael or Burt?" she asks quietly, watching his face raptly for any sign of their fate. But his own expression has grown grim as he stares down upon Brittany.

"No…" he says so softly that she almost doesn't hear. When he turns to her, his smile is forced, eyes betraying the confidence in his voice, "I'm sure they're all right." He scratches at his face as he settles close beside her, the sound of his stubble loud as it echoes in the silence of the air.

It is such a familiar sound, one that calms Santana as she leans her shoulder against his. _Michael and Burt made it out_ , she tells herself. _They must have._

"How about yourself?" he asks her softly as he takes Brittany's hand within his own. Santana watches him gently flex Brittany's fingers, his bottom lip tightly pulled between his teeth as he stares down at the unmoving woman.

"I'm not the one you should be worrying for," she tells him. He looks up at her, pleading in his gaze for her truthful response. Santana lets out a sigh, "I think my eardrum has ruptured, or at the very least my inner canals have suffered a trauma and liquid has—"

Noah shakes his head, a strange smile curling to his lips as he nudges her side gently and asks, "How's about in a way I get?"

"My head hurts and I'm starving," she says, appreciative for the bit of humor. Yet when she looks back down to Brittany the small smile upon her face falls. "She needs help, Noah."

"We'll be exchanged soon, you can help her then," he tells her and Santana wishes she could believe him. The guards look nowhere near ready to receive orders to muster their captives. Half of them even seem to be dozing off against the trees. No one is soon to come with word of their release. And of what Santana can recall of exchanges it was only ever those in positions of power that are traded. Captains for captains, commanders, generals… Men indispensible to the regiment.

Not foot soldiers, not couriers, and certainly never a woman. But there is a chance she knows, however slight it may be, that Major Keller has survived and he's asked for her return. Surgeons are few and far between, especially ones as skilled as she's become.

Do they wish her free? Is she worth the release of whatever Southern lieutenant they've captured… if they've captured anyone…

Santana doesn't even wish to think what would happen if Brittany is not upon the parole call. She's little time left to continue on untreated.

"She needs help _now_ ," Santana hisses to Noah.

He turns towards her, anxious. "Is there anything we can do?"

Santana's anger dissolves at his question. It is an innocent enough response, one born of his devotion to Brittany. And the look he gives her is the same one of anguish worn upon the men who sit beside their fallen friends. Her chest constricts, heart pained once more. "There's nothing..." she whimpers.

Noah lets go of Brittany's hand to slide his own behind Santana's back and draw her near. She instantly folds into his side, her head coming to rest against his shoulder. "Just hold on, okay? It can't be much longer," he whispers to her. "You know they'll want you _both_ back."

Her tears stream fast down her cheeks as she shakes her head. _He doesn't think he'll be called_. _And Brittany…_

" _Noah_ ," she chokes out.

He squeezes her shoulder. "I'll be just fine, Santana," he says, a forced chuckle leaving his lips soon after. "Big guy like me? These greybacks won't bother me none. Just you see. They'll be beggin' for my parole after I'm through."

Brittany doesn't stir, not even as Santana begins crying. Nor when silent sobs wrack her body and hot tears drip down upon Brittany's forehead.

* * *

Sleep has overtaken Santana, something Noah is most glad for. She'd exhausted herself into a stupor and dozes now still leaned against his shoulder. He hasn't moved in clear over three hours now, checking every so often for Brittany's even breaths and that Santana remained undisturbed. _She's suffered enough_ , he thinks as he keeps himself still and watches for sign of stirring from the guards. Her worries and pains would only exacerbate the longer the minutes pass on.

At least this way she can rest before whatever is to come.

She's sure to be called.

Both his girls will be.

He's not a stupid man, no matter how many times he's been told so in his life. He knows it's foolish to think his name will be among the few for parole. He only hopes the Southerners are still being lenient with those not exchanged. Wasn't it just this summer he heard word of McClellan's Army being overtaken up in Virginia? The greybacks let every single damn captive walk free! A vow to never take up arms and that was that, off those men went, back to their families. It wasn't a disgrace, it was a _blessing_.

_And all of it scuttlebutt_ , Noah reminds himself. No more a truth than any other story of freedom circling camp. He hasn't met one soul who could corroborate it and doubts they'll be showed the same compassion they all described now. Why bother fighting at all if you knew surrender would lead to freedom from service?

He'll be lucky if he's taken South and exchanged in a month.

Whatever is to be, no one will simply be let go.

It's nearing midday when the guards finally start to assemble in some manner of order. Not soon after a decorated Southern officer finally deigns to speak with them. Noah nudges Santana awake, sorry to have to interrupt her much needed rest but knowing she'd be upset with him if he let her sleep through this arrival. She rises groggy from his shoulder, eyes not quite open as she orients herself up. But she's snapped awake the moment her focus lands upon Brittany.

"Look," Noah whispers, not wishing for her to look despondent any longer. He nods toward the river where the officer stands.

The man barely looks up from the sheet of paper he holds in his hand, an expression of utmost concentration upon his brow. He seems to be muttering something beneath his breath, eyes shrouded in the shade of his cap. After a moment he gives a wave of his hand and the young soldier beside him straightens tall, clearing his throat.

"Soldiers are to approach once their name has been called!" the boy bellows, his voice not quite matured, cracking at points. Santana can't think him any older than fifteen. He seems to recoil at the attention poured toward him from the Northern men. He shrinks a bit in his posture as he says with a little less power, "If you're found to by lyin' you'll be shot."

The commanding officer steps forward, giving nod to the boy as he calls aloud from the list, "Lieutenant Cooter!"

A burly man stands to his feet and makes his way toward the Southern officer. Santana cannot hear the exchange between the men, but can see the Lieutenant smile before being escorted through the forest in the direction she knows their camp still rests.

"Sergeant Major Doyle!"

It carries on for at least a dozen more men before the southern officer's expression grows quizzical and he calls, "Lopez, S!"

Noah shakes her gently, grinning as he urges her to stand. Santana has ceased breathing, staring dumfounded at the officer.

The man grows impatient. "Is there a Lopez among you lot?"

A few heads turn toward Santana, gazes filled with longing for the same call.

She can't speak though, let alone muster the strength to rise to her feet.

Another Northern soldier answers for her, pointing in her direction as he hollers aloud, "She's just there!"

The Southerner's eyes land upon her, squinted in scrutiny. Surely this is some ruse, he thinks. There is no mention upon the list provided of any women, but than again it was uncommon for the soldiers to ever bring one for exchange. Typically within minutes of capture they would dissolve into sobbing messes that caused him endless head pains. They were hardly worth the trouble and proved even more fruitless when it came to parole. Nurses could always be replaced. His expression turns scornful as he realizes perhaps the sole intention for why he is now calling for her liberation. She is a pretty thing, after all; it's not hard to imagine her a favorite of the general. _Perhaps even a few_ , he thinks spitefully.

"You've been paroled," he tells her finally, drawing the attention of quite the number of Northern captives with his disparaging tone. A few even go so far as to scowl up at him. The Southern soldier squares his shoulders, ignoring their obvious disdain as he motions back toward the forest. " _Go_."

Noah nudges her, encouraging her to stand. Santana holds tighter to Brittany, unwilling to let go just yet.

The officer advances, livid as he shouts, "Did you not hear me? Be gone woman!"

"Is Pierce listed?" tumbles from her mouth before she's able to form even one coherent thought. The officer's eyes narrow at her but he acquiesces and scans his list.

"Santana, _no_ , go, I'll take care of her," Noah whispers so as to not be overheard. Santana looks toward him, shaking her head. She cannot be separated from Brittany. She'll do whatever it takes to stay. "They'll exchange us in a week no less," Noah says, hoping to reason with her. But he can see that unyielding look in her eyes, the one that has already made up her mind.

"She won't last another _day_ in this condition," She tells him, daring him to even speak a word further. Noah lets out a defeated breath, his gaze turning down to Brittany.

"I've no Pierce on the list!" the officer shouts.

Santana knows what must be done. She takes Brittany's head into her hands and ever so gently places her down in Noah's lap. His eyes are wide, panicked as they lock upon her own. She squeezes his hand before standing to her feet.

"Then I elect to stay," she tells the officer.

"Pardon? Stay?" The man sputters, both shocked and amused. Who does this woman think she is? "That is not—"

" _I will stay_!" Santana exclaims, heated. She calms not a second later, hiding the way her hands have begun to shake by crossing her arms tightly over her chest "There is no law that forbids it, is there?"

The officer stares at her curiously, his gaze unsettling. Santana remains standing firm her ground even beneath his blatant scrutiny. Even as a mocking smirk crawls to his thin lips and he says, "Of course there isn't. _Men_ aren't that stupid."

Santana never let's her stare falter, not even as she feels her heart beating rapidly against her ribs. "But stupid enough is what you mean, yes?" she asks, eyes narrowing. "You are after all insinuating there's a base amount of stupidity inherent in all men. A sentiment I'm _sure_ your fellow soldiers share otherwise you'd have never said it so _confidently_."

There's a murmur among the Northern men, some turning to stifle the sounds their obvious amusement. The officer grows red-faced, right to the very tips of his large ears. His eyes dart, cautious toward the guards. Santana dare not turn but she can hear them shifting uncomfortably upon their feet behind her.

The officers eyes finally pierce into her own, his contempt evident as he declares, "Parole _forfeited_."

" _Santana!_ " Noah hisses as he pulls her back down to the ground. The officer carries on, calling out the last few names upon his list as Noah leans close and intently whispers, "That was your chance!"

Santana merely gives him a silencing look as she sits back against the tree and places Brittany's head back in her own lap. "I can't leave her Noah, you _know_ I can't."

"Insulting him helped none either!"

"You saw how he looked at me. I couldn't—"

"Shut up, clearly," Noah completes for her, though she notices there's a hint of a smile in his tone. And when she looks at him she can see it, just beginning to form at the corner of his mouth. "Well said though."

A thought strikes her, one that has her cheeks growing pale upon realizing, "I could have been _shot_."

"No," Noah assures her. "Not with your name on the parole. He knows you're of value."

Santana is stunned regardless. "I can't believe I said that."

"I do," Noah says, though he sounds lamented. Santana turns to him, unsurprised to find him looking down upon Brittany. "You are so dumb in love with her."

She cannot deny the truth to his words. Yet the troubled way in which he uttered them… as if this shant be the last he will have to say so. They are almost a warning. Santana cannot think them so. How she feels for Brittany is not a burden. "If it was you he called instead," Santana whispers, and Noah lifts his head just the fraction it takes for his eyes to lock upon hers. "Would you have left us?"

It takes him a moment to answer but when he does it's spoken with a sigh. "No," he says finally. "And I'm sorry, I just—"

"I know," Santana interrupts, giving his hand a squeeze. She can feel fresh blisters dotted on his palm, a reminder if ever there was one of what they've survived. The men he must have killed… she can't help it as her eyes flitter down to the bloodstains on his coat. An odd calming sense settles within her, knowing the blood is not of his veins. She manages a small, shaky smile as she tells him, "And as sorry as I am that you're here I'm… I'm glad for it too."

He pulls her closer until their shoulders rest against the others once more. "We'll get out of this Santana, all of us together. _I know it_ ," he tells her earnestly. "Keep faith."

_Keep faith_ , she repeats to herself. How easy it was for him to say that.

For once she wishes she were more like her father, a thought that both haunts and humiliates her. But there is a truth to it. Something she wishes so very much was true of herself. He never forsook his faith, even distorted as it had become. He held onto to it, clutched at it desperately with a grip so unwilling to sever that even in death she could see it inked into the dark depth of his eyes. And for that fraction of a section where life still dwelled within his body she knows he hoped for God to avenge him. That He would rein justice upon her sin. It was a ludicrous hope, surely, but he believed it with all his blackened heart.

She wishes she could believe Noah.

Santana cannot will her head to nod at his words of hope. She feels that faith is not a part of her soul. It is a notion as ridiculous as the stars in the heavens being considered part of the land. There is too much between them; a void so immeasurable in distance it dizzies her now even thinking upon it. There were no stars in the sky last night, be it from the smoke of the fires or God's own will to leave such violence blind to his eye she does not care. She's lost her faith, the emptiness hollowed in its place so vast she feels dazed once more trying to quantify it. There's nothing to fill it with, no amount of prayers or sentiments could ever come close to delivering them from this hell.

Words cannot mend skin.

Looks cannot stave off infection.

She wishes she'd the faith to believe they will be saved. That Brittany will be given the help she so desperately needs.

But there are so many others like her, hurt and curled upon the cold ground. No Southern soldier pays them any mind; not one look of sympathy is spared for their pains.

They are not humans in this moment; not even mere animals she feels.

She certainly feels like one, though. The group of prisoners is similar to a cattle herd waiting to be prodded toward their next destination.

A soldier approaches, one of many she realizes now carrying similar pads of paper as they disperse among the men. She watches as they speak to the men, much kinder in tone than that of the officer whom stood among them not long ago. They seem to be taking down the names of the Northern soldiers, _possibly for another chance at parole_ , Santana thinks.

The Southern soldier nearby finally steps up to them and turns down to her. "Name." It is not a question but a demand.

"Santana…" she trails off, feeling her tongue fall into the place behind her teeth, waiting to form the familiar sound of her surname. It never spills forth. Her eyes shift, down to where Brittany rests in her lap. She's already forfeited parole…

And if Brittany were to wake and hear Santana's name being called again…

The soldier grows impatient, prodding her with his foot. " _Name_."

"Pierce," Santana answers finally, never once looking away from Brittany. "Santana Pierce."

"And him?" He asks, pointing down with his pencil to Brittany. Santana holds firmer to Brittany's shoulders.

"Bret Pierce," she replies quietly.

The soldier gives a grunt in response, his pencil scratching hastily against his ledger. "Damned Yanks," he grumbles with a shake of his head. "Followin' your men to war and them _allowin'_ it. Some husband you've there. I take it that's his coat you're wearing to boot?"

"It is mine," Santana corrects him, mindful not to let her voice edge toward exasperation. She looks up at the soldier, he's stopped writing, his eyes now focused down upon her with unrestrained bewilderment.

"You? A surgeon?" he asks, sputtering a bit to contain his laughter. The smile that curls to his lips beneath the thick of his mustache is mocking. "Surely you jest."

She makes to retort but Noah's hand wraps tightly about her arm and stills any bitter words upon her tongue. "Noah Puckerman," he says up to the soldier, nodding toward the ledger.

The soldier finishes scrawling Noah's name and is about to turn away when Santana reaches forward, stopping him with a hand placed against his knee. "Please," she begins to say, voice as polite as she's able. "We've injured men in need of help—"

He shakes her hand free with a kick, muttering down to her, "And so are we."

No one comes to them for the rest of the day.

And unlike cattle they aren't granted a morsel of food.

* * *

It's well into the night when someone does come. Santana is torn from sleep by a rough shove of her shoulder. She reaches out to brace herself but her body rolls against the impact and she bumps jarringly into Brittany who sleeps beside her. The man doesn't give her time to sit up; with a yank he pulls her to unsteady feet. Santana struggles to grasp what's happening. What little bonfires the men were able to strike have now died and the slim crescent moon barely sheds a drop of light upon the riverbed.

" _You're to_ _come with me_ ," is commanded of her, hissed into her ear in an utterly familiar tone. She grows still. What little sleep remains in her is quick to shake from Santana's eyes, her mind instantly rendered sharp as she stares up into the scratched face of her captor. His expression is still as severe as before, more so now in the dark of night.

With a tug he pulls her away from Brittany and Noah.

"No!" Santana digs her heels into the ground, fighting against his hold. Noah instantly rouses at her voice, sitting up from the ground as his eyes train up at the soldier. He makes to move to his feet but is stopped as the man withdraws a pistol, slamming down the hammer as he points it straight to Noah's chest. Noah breathes hard through his nose, hands planted to his sides as he glares up at the soldier.

He watches, restless as the man advances toward Santana and towers over her. " _Hush!"_ The soldier demands of her in a whisper _._ And then more for Noah's sake, tells her, "You'll be returned."

Noah does not believe the promise of this soldier and shifts against the ground, hoping to align himself in the perfect position to spring forward and catch the man off guard. But he takes one look to Santana, her eyes pleading with him to stay and a single shake of her head is enough for him to know doing so will risk them all.

He settles back down, ignoring the grin he knows the soldier is now wearing upon his face. "If you harm her—" Noah begins to say.

"Then you best hope I don't have to," the soldier interjects as he pockets his pistol. Santana can't take her eyes from Brittany, unwilling to believe she's to be separated from her. _He said you'll be returned_ , she reminds herself, but the thought does little to quell the unease rising in her belly. No good even comes from being stolen at such an hour.

Yet Brittany is being left alone. She'll be unharmed.

Noah will watch over her.

... it is enough.

Santana steps closer toward the soldier, eyes cast down to her feet.

With a nod down to Noah the man squeezes Santana's arm and drags her down toward the river.

"Where am I to be taken?" she asks as he leads her through the rows of sleeping men. She looks back over her shoulder to where Noah stares after her with a look she's never before seen cross his face. True, unadulterated fear. Fear for _her._

The soldier gives a hard yank of her arm and she's forced to look forward before she can even manage to mouth a word back to Noah.

"You get no say in this _doctor_ ," the soldier sneers, his cynicism obvious. That's not what surprises Santana. His tone is more than anticipated. No, what surprises her is that he's called her a doctor at all. Wasn't he the one so adamant she was lying? Is this to be some test of the validity of the coat still buttoned high up her frame? She's forfeited her parole; what more could she be worth to these men?

A chill settles in her bones when the obvious answer springs to her mind. The nurses' screams still resonate in her head even at the slightest inclination toward such horror. Santana tries slowing their pace but the soldier is stronger, his hold unrelenting. _I am not to share his bed_ , she wills her mind to believe. Not this man who stares at her with such disdain and holds her as if wishing to be free from the touch of her sleeve.

She wants to scream, to demand of him what is to come from this night. She feels she's been thrown back into the heat of camp, desperate to escape once more. The air is thick, her head growing dizzy as she continues to follow him along the empty riverbank.

"We've a camp ahead," he finally speaks, for once his tone devoid of its scorn… devoid of any emotion in actuality.

Her apprehension only increases tenfold.

Her hearing is still muted and she strains to hear anything over the sound of the river running its course beside them. The water muffles the joyous voices of the men in the midst of celebration but the closer they draw near the clearer they become. And the faster her captor's pace grows as well. Santana struggles to keep in stride beneath his hold, feet sinking into the muck of the bank with every step she must jump to keep upright. The soldier plows forward, undeterred by her trouble.

The first tents enter her sight through the thick line of trees. Small, hastily constructed pieces of canvas slung between branches if not hoisted between negligently buried support poles. There are only a few tents, no more than six. She's never seen a camp so small but knows it is probably only one of many erected along the river for the night.

As they reach the edge of the camp a few soldiers drunkenly stumble by, broad grins upon their faces as they look upon Santana.

"Already foun' yerself a fancy girl?" one slurs, cackling loudly as he drinks a great swig of his beer.

"She's dreadful nice lookin'," the other comments, leering at Santana.

A flash of panic seizes Santana at their words. Her eyes instantly draw up to the soldier still holding her tight beside him. He doesn't look her way, simply continues walking her deeper into the camp, never once saying a word to the men they pass, even as they holler calls in appreciation to her retreating back.

It's the same treatment all the way down the one center lane. Heckles and cheers cried as she passes, hands sometimes skimming across her skirt, others bold enough to try and grasp one of her legs. They never touch upon her for long, the soldier leading her quick to divert her away. She doesn't know whether to be grateful or repulsed by his actions. Fear is so thickly coiled in her gut there is little room for reason. But she keeps her expression as neutral as possible, not once letting her anxiety cross her face.

Wherever she is to be taken there is but one thing she cares of.

Brittany is safe.

She's pushed inside a tent no bigger than that of Burt's. And yet within it is densely packed with countless injured men. At least twenty men are squeezed along one wall with no cots, only blankets laid upon the ground as beds. The bandages wrapped about their heads and limbs are thin, soaked through with blood. Bottles of cheap beer and whiskey are clutched in many a soldier's hand if not tossed carelessly to the ground beside them. _And the smell_ , Santana thinks, face scrunching as she's accosted with the smell of bile and waste.

"Ah, you've found her," a man says from just to their left. Santana recognizes him as the officer from earlier. He waves her over hastily, the soldier at her side instantly releasing her in favor of giving a hard shove to her back. Santana stumbles forward, careful not to trip upon any of the men lying below. The officer's brow rises in interest but what little regard he may attribute to her is squelched when he she's finally standing before him. When he finally must tell her why she's been brought here.

"Our only competent surgeon has fallen to the spell of liquor," he explains, motioning for her to follow him toward the rear of the tent. "We don't trust him to spit straight let alone attempt to slice into a man's skin."

"What are you asking me to do?" She asks.

"It is not a _request_ ," the officer spins on his heels, eyes narrowing into her own. He points back to the lone operating table where a man lies, looking upon the brink of death. "You _will_ save his life."

Santana looks down at the man. Her first thought is simply but one word. _Impossible_. For the man is clearly lying where he will soon die. His shirt has been shed, chest riddled with the bloody telltale marks of horse hooves. His breathing is ragged, short bursts of breaths exhaled from paling lips. Her eyes scan over his limbs, one arm will need to be amputated, the radius bone a shattered mess piercing through his skin. She cannot see the extent of the damage wrought to his legs but the pools of blood staining his slacks are enough for her to know it is substantial.

As substantial as the jacket slung over the edge of the table. The one with the markings of a Colonel.

They need him.

Santana turns back to the officer. "And if he dies despite my efforts?" she asks.

"You forfeited your freedom the moment you elected to stay. Either you both live, or you both die," the officer explains simply, smiling even. "Miss Fabray will assist you," he goes on to tell her, nodding toward a corner of the tent where a disheveled looking blonde nurse is working alone to bandage a man's head. "Anything you require, she will see to it you are equipped."

_One nurse in a shoddy hospital._ Santana can't help the sputter of sound that escapes her as she asks, "You can't expect me to—"

The officer steps forward, the smile wiped from his face as he tells her, "If you value your life at all you _will_ save him." He fingers the collar of her coat, lip curled in a smirk as he asks, "You are a surgeon, are you not?"

Santana slaps his hand aside, glaring up at the officer before turning toward the sole nurse and ordering quickly, "I need him disrobed, give him a quarter dose of morphine if can be spared and get those limbs above his heart first. A mid range tourniquet next, metacarpal saw, at least two scalpels but I prefer three, an artery needle, strong thread, bail forceps and for the love of god _all clean._ "

The nurse seems stunned by the command but recovers quickly, nodding as she sets about to collect everything. Santana then turns back toward the officer, pleased at seeing a similar stunned expression upon his thin face. And thus she cannot help herself when she asks him, "Do you think he'd prefer his sutures cross-stitched or straight?"

* * *

The officer and soldier are gone, leaving Santana alone with the nurse and the dying Colonel. She knows why they've left, and she does not blame them. This is not the ideal place to remain standing, let alone operate. At least one soldier surrenders to losing his stomach every quarter of the hour. Another soon follows before exhaustion takes them into sleep. They miss the buckets every time and the nurse must ignore her duties in order to remain Santana's aid through the procedure. Santana works quickly to save the Colonel's life, knowing her own is held with each breath he takes. A gun may not be pointed to her back but she knows one awaits her just outside the tent if she were to even think of fleeing.

She's trapped, forced to save the life of a man who could very well have ended Michael's or Burt's.

Perhaps Piedmont's step is one of the many laid against his chest.

She can't help but think if Brittany were here she could point to his horseshoe.

Santana forces thoughts of her aside, knowing if she is to make it from this tent alive she must focus.

She's no way to know the extent of the damage done to the Colonel by the horses, a light touch of her fingers to his abdomen provides a deep groan from his lips. He could be bleeding, organs ruptured and she's not the instruments here to assist him. (The nurse was only able to provide one scalpel and a bent saw for cutting, granting her a withering look from Santana not a few minutes prior). She does not have the skilled hands of Michael to ensure his heart still beats as she works. Fabray is a nuisance if ever there was one, staring at her with wide muddy eyes and expelling astonished gasps every time Santana finds a pocket of liquid in his chest in need of puncturing. It's as if she's never had the privilege to assist in an operation, a fact Santana is starting to believe very true when she asks of the nurse to fix the tourniquet to the man's arm.

Fabray's entire expression brightens and she's barely able to contain the smile wanting to break across her face as she hurries to carry out Santana's order.

"Where are your medics?" Santana asks her, taking the scalpel in her hand next. The edge is dull when she runs the pad of her thumb across it. Yet another setback. Did the South care so little for the wellbeing of their wounded soldiers?

The nurse seems surprised to be being asked a question, but answers quickly, her hands never faltering in their adjustments of the tourniquet. "Most went back with the men, to our camp a few miles East of here."

"You've injured _here_ in need of help," Santana points out, making her first incision into his arm.

"They've already stopped by to attend these men," Fabray tells her, her expression hardening as she looks to the soldiers lying at her back. She mutters something beneath her breath that Santana does not catch, but she can deem from the look in the nurses' eyes that whatever she's spoken is not in favor of the medic staff. "Our doctor is no better," Fabray continues. "You heard what Lieutenant Miller said, _drunk already_. We wouldn't have had to fetch you otherwise."

Santana hates idle chatter. Fabray's first answer was sufficient enough. _I'm quite aware of why I am here_ , she thinks to herself with a sneer. "Saw," she says, holding her hand out for the tool.

"I'm Quinn," the nurse tells her as she holds out the saw for Santana to take. The teeth aren't straight; the man's arm will be sure to look a right disaster once she's severed it from his elbow.

Santana says nothing in response, snatching the saw away and immediately setting to work digging the teeth of the tool into the Colonel's forearm.

"You know," Quinn says, sliding a bucket beneath the arm to catch the man's blood. "Typically when someone gives their name you are rewarded with the same in return."

Santana stops sawing, eyes set in a heated glare as she looks up to Quinn, "Typically," she echoes, mimicking the woman's airy tone, "when I am working I am rewarded with _silence_."

Quinn seems unaffected by her biting tone, quirking a brow as she hands Santana another clean cloth. "If you need a scalpel how am I to respond? Two blinks for a 'right away, Miss', or one for 'never in this life, Miss'?"

Santana grits her teeth, forcing the saw harder through the Colonel's muscle. " _My name's Santana_."

"You're an excellent doctor, Miss Santana," Quinn tells her, quick to anticipate the bone file Santana is soon to need. "That's all I wished to say."

Santana wishes that were indeed all Quinn wished to say. Even though she remains relatively quiet for the remainder of the amputation she does interject with questions, the nurse obviously curious about the actions Santana undertakes. But she's attentive; far better an aide than the nurses once under her charge. Again Santana feels her stomach twisting with grief, recalling the way one of her team was led away. She doesn't understand how Quinn can have volunteered to help these men. Not once has she been shown any ounce of compassion, let alone human decency, since she's been detained. Do they treat their own differently?

Michael would certainly think Quinn crazy if he were here, Santana thinks as she completes wrapping the Colonel's stub of an arm and sets about to stitch up the more cumbersome of lesions on his legs. His breathing has tempered, heart rate returned to normal. She's relaxed some in her work now that she knows he will survive the night. As for the days to come, well... she hopes she's well and away by then. But she wishes to finish quickly, wanting to return to Brittany's side. And poor Noah, he's probably anxiously awaiting her arrival.

Santana feels a heat at her back and must suppress the roll of her eyes when she realizes Quinn no longer stands opposite her.

Also that Quinn Fabray is hankering for a needle to be plunged through her eye. One Santana is more than willing to see find its mark. Especially if the other woman doesn't stop hovering about like a damned fly. Santana straightens from over the patient, eyes narrowed in distaste at the astonished blonde beside her.

"Have you finished already?" Quinn asks, peering over Santana's shoulder.

"If you don't give me space _right now_ ," Santana begins to say between tightly-clenched teeth. "He won't be the only one unconscious upon a shabby, _poorly_ maintained operating table. Am I clear, idiota? ¿Quieres eso?"

"No lo quiero," Quinn says lightly, taking a step back with a smirk upon her lips. "My nanny was a Spaniard," she explains, handing Santana a spare cloth. But Santana does not take it, even when she knows it's exactly the item she now needs. Quinn smiles, forcing it into Santana's hand. "And just in case, I'm also fluent in French. S'il vous plaît, continuer."

Santana's eyes narrow further.

"Por favor, _continue_ ," Quinn tells her.

"Stop talking," Santana grumbles, turning back to the Colonel and wiping up the excess blood from the sutures on his leg.

Quinn maintains a respectful distance afterward, even going so far as to redress the Colonel by herself once Santana's completed her work. Santana says nothing in way of thanks, but is grateful for Quinn's assistance in that matter nevertheless. She'll never tell the Southern girl as much though, undeserving as she feels it'd be to give her but even a word of praise. A scarcely adequate perhaps, or a might overbearing could be in order. _Entirely overbearing, really,_ she corrects herself. As Quinn carries out her task Santana finds herself looking around at the men inside the tent. Some are in need of fresh bandages, others a good dose of opium to sleep undisturbed through the night. Then there are others, ones like the man slumped against a crate in the corner, his forehead dotted with a sheen of what she knows to be cold sweat. Feverish, possibly suffering from an infection left untreated.

Brittany could very well resemble him soon if she's left in the same state. Santana makes her way to his side, immediately crouching to his level. She touches a few of her fingers to his cheek, unsurprised by the heat pouring from his body.

The man's eyes open lazily at her touch, a great wheeze of a breath drawn deep into his lungs.

"What were you told ails you?" she asks, searching his body for the telltale bandages she assumes to be wrapped haphazardly around an infected and poorly-stitched wound. She spots it, a small darkened area against his coat near his hip. It smells of puss, even from a distance. Infected indeed. "A bullet wound?"

The man nods slowly.

He was probably told the discharge was healthy, a completely common misconception Santana was pleased to see forgotten in her camp. She lifts up the man's coat and shirt, expecting a small hole and bit of a stench. An easy fix, simple cleaning and fresh bandages would see to it that the infection not thrive.

But what she finds is stilling. His entire side has erupted in small boils and the once small bullet wound is engorged. The stiches have broken, septicemia well set in.

She lowers his shirt and coat.

She cannot treat this, but she can make him comfortable.

Santana turns, about to call for Quinn only to find the woman already standing a few paces behind, watching her with interest, her features softened. Quinn is stunned for she has never met a doctor quite like Santana. Hell, she's never met a woman who held that title in all her life. And to be so skilled at such an age… Quinn can't imagine what Santana's life must have been before the war. Had she apprenticed with a great surgeon? Gone to the finest of medical schools?

Quinn is envious really, of whatever life it was Santana left in order to volunteer in this gruesome war. _She must also be right stupid to give it up_ , she thinks. It must have been a life of opportunity and endless possibilities surrounded by people of like mind and soul. Not a life contrived since her birth and filled with the worst of human kind. Sensibilities instilled, opinions warped, everything planned to the most minute of details and executed with all the charms of a tired dance.

Santana is the very picture of the freedom Quinn has craved and still craves even now. Of why one morning after her breakfast of portioned eggs, bacon and warm biscuits, with her mother's newest potential suitor sitting in the parlor awaiting her arrival, that Quinn found herself walking straight out the front door and down to the local enlistment bureau where she signed her life away with a quick stroke of a borrowed pen.

She never looked back.

"Shit for eyes, if you could? Morphine?" Santana asks, pointing toward the small array of pill bottles on the box resting beside the operating table. She doesn't know where Quinn's mind has just disappeared. The Nurses' eyes are clouded with an expression Santana cannot place, unfocused and yet the murky color for once is alarmingly bright, even in the dim light of the oil lamps. Quinn is quick to spring into motion, not even bothered by the insult as she brings the bottle over. Her thoughts are still spinning in her head, unable to settle, as she watches the soldier manage to swallow a pill, coughing all the while without water to help it down his throat. She apologizes for the lack of the liquid.

"We used it all on the Colonel," she explains softly.

Santana says nothing of the fate of the man, merely stands to her feet, knowing the officer and soldier are to return soon to collect her. She stares down at the bottle in her hands, wondering if she should empty it in her pocket to administer to her own men. For Brittany especially.

But Quinn takes it gently from her before she can even move, placing it back alongside the others. Beside the medicine rests a small pile of blankets and without hesitation Quinn takes a few and returns back to Santana. "Here," she says, holding out the bundle for the doctor. "Perhaps you can stay with me for the night. It's not much I know and certainly not what you must be used to, but I know they have you all down by the river and—"

"Stop, _stop_ ," Santana says, holding up a hand in hopes of keeping Quinn from speaking further. "I'm not _staying_."

"Would you rather freeze tonight?" Quinn counters, quirking a brow.

"Yes," Santana answers fiercely. "I'd rather freeze beside my _friends_ than be warm beside those causing them such pain."

Quinn sighs and holds the bundle of blankets out further. "Take them then. For you and your friends."

"Why are you being so kind to me?" Santana asks, wary of accepting them.

"It's the least I can do," Quinn tells her. "Circumstances may have forced us to be enemies but I cannot stand aside as a _nurse_ and allow good people to suffer."

Santana rolls her eyes. "What makes you think I'm so good?"

"You could have left that man to his pains," Quinn whispers. "But you _helped_."

"There is a gun pointed at my back," Santana reminds her. "Or did you forget why I was brought here?"

Quinn throws the bundle to Santana's chest. "Just take the blankets," she says, resigned as she turns to begin cleaning the rest of the operating space. From over her shoulder she tells Santana, "If you need anything else just let me know. Unless asking for help is somehow also a major _grievance_ upon your character."

"I'm grateful for the blankets but anything more and your men will be sure to notice. I'm already upon thin ice," Santana hisses, striding forward and stopping Quinn with a quick pull of arm. "Or is that your intent? Give the yank some supplies and have her _killed_ for thieving. What a laugh you'll have."

Quinn says nothing for a moment, staring at Santana with curious eyes. "You don't think very much of me, do you?"

"Why should I have any reason to think you anything aside from the same as your fellow greyback?"

"Because, perhaps like you, some of us did not ever wish to find ourselves where we currently are," Quinn tells her honestly and Santana is taken aback by her reply.

"You didn't… volunteer?"

"I did," Quinn confesses, tossing a soiled cloth to the bucket with the Colonel's amputated arm. "Regrettably."

Santana doesn't know whether to trust her… but she is reminded of Brittany and knows she cannot hesitate to ask. "There is…" Santana begins to say, growing nervous. "There is one thing I need. And if you could help I—"

Quinn smiles softly, "Of course, simply name it."

"A pocket kit, if you have one," Santana says quietly. "Or a needle and some spare suture thread. My—"

Quinn nods in understanding. "I didn't want to mention it because I'm sure you're aware but you have suffered something rather terrible looking in this area," she says, motioning toward her own left ear.

"It's not for me," Santana tells her. "My friend is hurt. I was never able to finish treating him and—"

Quinn immediately turns to the tools laid out for the operation. She takes the spool of suture thread and pierces a clean needle through the roll. "Here," she stuffs it discreetly into the bundle of blankets in Santana's arms. "Don't let them see it," she whispers.

Santana nods, closing her arms tight around the bundle and hugging it closer to her chest. "Thank you, Quinn, _thank you_."

"No somos monstrous. Not all of us," Quinn tells her just before the officer and soldier finally reenter the tent.

* * *

They let her keep the blankets, a gift of sorts, they say as they escort her back to the internment enclosure. Santana never loosens her hold upon the bundle, knowing how precious the spool of thread and needle she carries is. If it were to slip free and the men could see what Quinn's provided her…

She stops herself from imaging such a fate.

_Almost there_ , she thinks instead.

The men leave her once they've reached the line of guards and Santana must will herself not to run to Brittany's side as she wishes. She knows the officer and soldier are watching her, just waiting for her to finally give them reason to bury a bullet deep into her skull. Noah rises to his feet as she approaches, eyes blurred with tears and nose red. She doesn't stop walking until his arms warp around her and an overwhelming feeling of safety finally has her legs giving out beneath her. He lowers them to the ground, careful not to let her fall. And then he holds her, simply waiting as he watches the two men down by the river's edge.

He can feel Santana shaking against him, her words muffled by his coat, "Have they gone?"

"Not yet," he whispers, rubbing her back.

It takes them a few moments more, but eventually they retreat.

"Okay," Noah says quietly, pulling away once they are well from sight.

Santana unfolds the blankets in her lap, hands shaking as she unfurls from within the needle and thread.

"How did you?" he asks, astonished.

"Just help me with her arm," she tells him instead, quickly setting about preparing the needle with a fair amount of suture thread.

Noah gently arranges Brittany's arm, peeling away the layer of bandage until the wound meets his eyes. He swallows thickly as he stares down at the mess of blood and skin. He can see where Santana had started to mend the injury, the rest though is still torn and encrusted with dried blood. He brushes aside what he can, mindful not to touch directly over the deep cut. Santana would slap him blind if he so much as inadvertently spread infection, even if he doesn't quite know how he might do so. She's shouted at him enough to never pick at his scabs for him to know not to even touch Brittany's wound now.

"Thank you," she whispers as she lays a hand over his own. He gives her a smile and moves away to give her the space to work. And even with the dark of night making it hard to properly see Santana still takes to suturing Brittany's arm with keen attentiveness. More so than Noah thinks she's ever showed to any other patient.

When she finishes with Brittany's arm, rewrapping it to ensure the bloody bits of the bandage don't rest against the fresh sutures, Santana presses a kiss to her temple.

"Watch her for me?" she asks Noah, not waiting for a response before she moves down into the crowd of the men and attends to one in dire need of the same attention.

Noah stays by Brittany's side as Santana moves from soldier to soldier, doing what she can with the little she's been provided. Three she's able to mend, the forth too far gone for even sutures to help. She works quickly, mindful of the guards watching her every move. They say nothing though, not one stepping forward to stop her.

_So it seems Quinn was right after all_ , she thinks as she finishes up the last of the thread on a laceration across a cavalry soldier's neck. They aren't all monsters.

"If she could see you right now," Noah says once she returns. "She'd be so proud."

Santana gives him a small smile as she settles down beside Brittany, pulling a blanket snuggly around them both. Noah tosses the other over them all, huddling close to Brittany's back. He closes his eyes to sleep, but Santana's voice, soft as it carries into the night, keeps him from dreams.

"Hi Britt," Santana breathes out as she settles into place curled in front of the sleeping woman. She's been turned to her side, the injured arm resting just between them. Santana runs her hand over Brittany's wrist before linking a few of her fingers with Brittany's own. She lets out a long breath, one filled with relief to finally be by her side yet fear for what is now to come. "I know it's pointless, saying anything to you when you're… like this, but I miss talking to you."

Brittany doesn't stir, not even as Santana unlinks their fingers and traces a path softly down Brittany's cheek instead. She's still so cool to the touch, her skin so utterly pale. Santana scoots closer and doesn't stop until her knees brush against Brittany's and she can count the freckles sprinkled across the couriers nose.

"No," Santana recalls the last words she said to her, brow scrunching as she realizes, "I miss talking _with_ you. I just… I just miss _you_. And Noah's probably hearing all of this but you know what? I don't care. I don't care if he knows how I feel for you because I'm so afraid I'm losing you and I can't let another second pass in silence if this is to be our last.

"I don't want it to be," Santana says thickly, hoping for those blue eyes to open even but a sliver. Yet they remained closed, Brittany's breaths still so slow. Santana slides her hand behind Brittany's neck, pulling her just the fraction of space closer until their foreheads meet and Santana can feel those slow exhales upon her lips. "I made you a promise that we'd be home soon and I'm so sorry we're not there yet but _we will be_ , Britt," she tells her adamantly, voice verging upon breaking. "You must be by my side when we get there because I can't meet your family alone. I won't know what to say...

"I bet you and Emily have the same smile and laugh," Santana thinks aloud, smiling through her silent tears. "And your Pa, I imagine his eyes as blue as yours and just as patient and kind. You've told me so much of them and the farm I feel like I've already been there. I know the color the wallpaper, where the lake lies and how the kitchen table is old and one leg doesn't reach all the way to the floor. I want to wake up to chickens crowing or what have you, do they even do that?" she asks, confused for moment.

She doesn't know if it's merely her mind playing a trick upon her or if it's truly real, but there's a hint of color returning to Brittany's face. The smallest of hopes plants itself in Santana's heart at the appearance. "Even if all we ever eat is cornmeal for breakfast I know you'll be there and that's all that matters. Hell, I want to help you care for Lord Tubbington, Apple, Clarence, King Benjamin, Daisy, Louie and Pip. Do you know how hard it was to remember them all? But I did, because I _want_ to know them. They're your home Britt, just as your mine," she whispers, tracing small circles at the back of Brittany's neck. "And I can't lose that. _I can't_. I can't lose you, not when I've just found you."

Noah remains absolutely still, simply listening for any response from the woman beside him. He can feel Brittany's breaths, deep as her back presses against his own. And then hears the small sob that chokes it way out from Santana's throat. Her hope gone with it.

" _Please, Brittany_ ," Santana whispers, pleads with all her heart. There's a slight movement near her feet, Brittany's leg shifting against the ground. Santana's gaze locks upon Brittany's face, eyes darting between closed ones, waiting for them to open.

"San…" Brittany murmurs, eyes still closed, arm throbbing with pain. "I'm not dying…"

Santana closes the gap separating them, kissing Brittany firmly. Relishing in the warmth of her lips pressed against her own. "No," she whispers as she kisses her again, unable to keep the smile from her lips. "No you're not."

"I'm just tired is all," Brittany breathes out, eyes finally opening lazily. Her vision is unfocused though, unable to even make out the blurred features of Santana's face. And the pain in her arm, how it burns. She heard though; everything so absolutely clear. She can feel her lips pulling into a smile despite the stinging, eyes growing heavy once more. "But what you said…" she tells her, unwilling to succumb to sleep without letting Santana know. "It was very sweet…. you're my home too…"

Santana kisses her again, longer this time. " _I love you_ ," she whispers against her lips.

Brittany nudges her nose beside Santana's, whispering back, "I love you too."

"I love you _both_ ," they can hear Noah saying.

" _Quit it, Noah,_ " Santana hisses over Brittany's shoulder. When she turns back down to her though sleep has finally overtaken Brittany. _But she's all right_ , Santana reminds herself. They'll be all right.


	18. Men and Monsters

Santana has been awake for only a few minutes yet swears she's been writhing on the ground for hours. She doesn't recall the last time she's hurt so. It's as if every joint in her body has conspired to swell and ache, every muscle just skirting near the brink of cramping. She resists opening her eyes to the morning light; fearing the sharp sting of pain that will erupt in her temples and exacerbate the wound on her head. The gash throbs even now, a dreadful pound against her skull that beats in time with her heart.

Everything hurts.

And her stomach… she's never gone so long without a meal and is feeling the sheer force of its anger as she curls further into herself along the ground. Of all her pains, the hunger is the worst. No amount of twisting, or wishes for her thoughts to turn elsewhere will cease starvation. She knows the hunger will ravage her in time. Destroy her just as that blade did Brittany's arm.

She trembles at the mere memory and before any additional visions of that night can surface her stomach clenches. Santana smothers her groan with a quick purse of her lips as she bends her legs up closer. Beneath the blanket, her knee bumps against Brittany's, stirring sleep from blue eyes.

"San?" Brittany whispers softly, brushing the very tips of her fingers against Santana's clenched fist. Santana's stomach contracts at her touch, both warmed and pained. Brittany can feel the hand beneath hers shuddering and wants to slide closer to draw Santana near… but her limbs are unresponsive, thoughts still muddled with fatigue as she takes hold of Santana's hand instead. Her grip is weak, barely a pressure upon Santana's heated skin. However the gesture is welcome, bringing with it the briefest relief that ebbs Santana's aches.

Santana squints her eyes open as she turns her hand to twine with Brittany's, desperate to hide the twitch of her muscles in a firm grip. Brittany blinks at her, tired and fretful. She has so much she wishes to ask but the words are stuck on her tongue, too heavy to spill forth. _Where are they? Why does her arm hurt so? What's happened? Where is…._

Her thoughts pause as recent dreams come to the forefront of her mind. Images of fires, Michael's face lost among the many, Burt thrown from her side, Santana bleeding on the ground… Brittany's eyes flit toward dark hair and her mouth parts as she stares at the wound she so hoped was only a horrid flicker in cruel dream.

Yet the smell of the blood is too real, Santana's skin against her own too warm. The gash is buried beneath tangled hair but Brittany can clearly see the way it rises up from the slope of Santana's head. Her throat tightens the longer her gaze lingers. Santana is hurting and she looks so ill… so frail.

Santana can see Brittany wishes to speak, concern so vivid in her gaze. She manages a small, strained smile as she tells her, "I'm okay…" but her voice is pained, splintered by a moan. She slams her eyes shut against the light, wincing as her stomach knots deep in her gut.

"Santana?" She can hear Noah whisper for her. The sunlight against her eyelids dims as he hovers just over Brittany's shoulder to look down at her. There's a light touch against her brow as calloused fingers brush some matted hair from her forehead. Her skin is hot beneath his touch and a worrisome crease forms along his brow. "Are you—"

" _I'm fine_ ," she grits out before he can even complete his thought.

Noah shuffles some as he positions himself upright. "You're sweating and it's near freezing out here."

Santana merely lets out another groan in response, mindful to keep it verging upon exasperation and not ache. But the ache prevails and her jaw clenches as she stiffens against another gut wrenching cramp.

Brittany's fingers attempt to squeeze those in her grasp and Santana feels her heart sink at the effort. _She's so weak,_ Santana laments, fearing what the day will bring for them without further aide. She is also quickly reminded that _Brittany is alive. She is with me_. It takes all her will power not to start crying when she feels Brittany's cool thumb trace along her skin.

"It's okay," Brittany whispers, drawing in a deep breath as she forces herself to remain awake. "We'll be… all right…"

By the time Santana brings her hand to Brittany's cheek, blue eyes have closed and she's fallen fast asleep.

"Here," Noah says quietly, tucking the blanket more snugly around both women. Santana doesn't move as he does so, nor do her eyes leave Brittany's face. The hint of color upon her cheeks from the previous night still lingers; however the blush appears more of a faded remnant of life than the hope it once brought. It's swallowed so wholly by the pale sheen of Brittany's skin that it's barely acknowledgeable. Even her lips have lost their usual ruddy hue, dulled to a dark shade of alabaster and exhibiting a texture Santana can only attribute to the same as the bandages wrapped about her arm.

Her eyes travel down to the wound, quick to inspect her work of the preceding night. Despite the unbearable discomfort in her gut, Santana forces herself to sit upright, earning her yet another stream of concerned words from Noah, which she quickly silences with an impatient look. He remains tight-lipped behind Brittany, but watches her closely. Santana is sick, of that much he is sure. The extent of which he assumes has a great deal to do with that wound she keeps flinching about every time she tilts her head. And then there's the matter of her grumbling stomach. When had she last eaten?

But he says nothing, remaining quiet as Santana carefully unwraps Brittany's arm to check upon the healing injury.

The bandages are stiff with dried blood and Santana must slow her pace, too afraid of aggravating the fresh sutures beneath. Brittany is very much in need of fresh wrappings if infection is to be kept from her arm. Santana can't help but think upon the dying man in the Southern medical tent; the one whose side was inflamed from a simple bullet wound. _He must be dead now_ , she thinks; him and the many others in need of care. One nurse is not enough, not even one as apt as Quinn.

Santana unfurls the last of the bandages only to drop them from her hands at the sight of Brittany's bare arm. The skin is raised and red around the sutures, blood clotted so thickly in parts it's hard for Santana to see. But it's clear infection has more than settled into the wound. Santana's head pounds furiously as she throws the blankets off Brittany's body. Brittany's legs are curled up close and locked at the ankle, a sure sign that even in sleep her arm pains her.

Santana has nothing to help ease her suffering.

Nothing to stop the infection from spreading more. Not a drop of alcohol to wipe clean the surgery site, not even a source of water pure enough to risk pouring against the burning skin.

"She'll be okay," Noah tells her, though even his voice is heavy with reservation.

_She won't_ , Santana wants to scream at him but the truth of those words weighs too heavily on her heart. Her doubts echo in her ears, fogging her thoughts and wishing to pull her into blackness. Noah steadies her with a strong hand, eyes pleading her for an answer.

There is but one and Santana is hesitant to even voice it aloud. _What if she is only to worsen? She's lost so much blood the infection will only spread that much faster!_ Santana hasn't the time to rationalize her instinct.

And she refuses not to try.

She cannot let Brittany die like the man in Quinn's tent.

_The water should be cold enough… clean enough…_

"Pick her up," she urges Noah as she braces herself against the tree and stands to her feet. " _The river_ ," she breathes out, digging her fingers into the bark to keep her head from spinning so violently. Her stomach surges up to her throat, nausea threatening to overwhelm her.

"Santana?" He asks, reaching for her.

"Go!" She shouts at him, swallowing down whatever horror rising within her.

Noah wastes not a second as he quickly scoops Brittany into his arms. She's slack in his hold, head sagging listlessly to and fro, as he swiftly makes his way down to the riverbank. Santana keeps in step behind him, stumbling along beneath the pressure now manifesting in her head. Noah runs steadfast, sidestepping men and the remaining piles of snow scattered along the ground. Santana's vision tunnels as she breathes hard. Ahead Noah multiplies in her line of sight.

Her feet tangle in the snarled branches of a dead fern, body instantly pitching forward toward the ground. She braces herself for the fall but it never comes. Two arms grab solidly to her sides, one just beneath her right arm as the other wraps strongly about her waist. She's hoisted back to her feet, ready to brush off the support when the faces of the two men beside her register within her mind.

They're old patients. The one with the thick brow from a month back, flu she recalls. The other missing a few teeth from a horses kick to the mouth a few week prior. He smiles down at her, stitches in his split lip straining against the pull.

"Whoever done hurt your head so," the other gruffly begins to say as he releases his hold from her waist to place a steadying hand upon her shoulder. "Consider 'im a dead man."

Santana doesn't know quite what to say in response, still surprised they've even bothered to help at all. She nods anyway, earning her a broad grin from the thick-browed man. The cavalry soldier gently releases her arm, turning down toward his coat where he extracts a small canteen.

"I know it ain't what you're used to," he says quietly in way of explanation as he hands her the metal flask; a small amount of liquid inside splashes against the tin in the exchange. "But maybe it'll help Bret."

There's no need even to ask what once fully filled the flask for she can smell the whiskey contained therein upon the soldier's breath. Santana knows full well what she wishes to say to the young soldier with the broken smile. A thousands thanks seems not close enough but she can't even muster a nod let alone the thought needed for a word in gratitude. He must think her a fool as tears begin to spill from her eyes. But if he does he shows it not, simply smiling at her as best he can as he and his companion step aside to let her carry on her way.

Holding the flask tight to her chest Santana grips to his arm with her other, all her appreciation conveyed in the firm hold. She lets go not a second later, mind far more focused now as she takes off down to the river.

Noah has already lowered himself to the ground by the time Santana runs up beside him. His feet have sunk clear into the riverbed, only the ankle of his boots visible from where he squats with Brittany held in his lap. It won't be long till his feet grow frostbitten submerged in such glacial muck, she must work fast.

Santana swirls the whiskey in the flask, listening for the amount. There's not enough liquid to clean Brittany's wound completely but a good amount to work with once the river water has washed away the bulk of the clots. She knows this is not the best of solutions but it is the only one they've been afforded. Keeping the wound clean and free from further infection is what will keep Brittany from slipping away…

_Britt will be fine_ , she repeats to herself as she squats down in front of Noah. Her hand instantly comes forward to brush some of Brittany's hair from over her forehead. Just as before it remains swept toward the side, a look Santana is still so unused to seeing but ever so grateful for. No Southern soldier has looked twice at Brittany. From the shoreline, Santana can see a few of the guards watching her curiously, but none makes a move to stop her. She washes her hands quickly, the water so cold it sears at her skin as if it were flame. She's relived by the sensation; no disease could ever thrive in water so frigid.

Noah holds out Brittany's bare arm, careful not to let her slip from his grasp.

"I'm sorry, Santana," he tells her as she works to brush water over the edges of the crusted wound. The congealed blood begins to loosen and drip down Brittany's arm. Noah turns from the sight. "If I had just cleaned it properly—"

"This isn't your fault," Santana says, never once ceasing in her work despite the blotches of white now entering her vision. Her stomach churns and for a fraction of a moment, she must stop before her muscles lock against the tension. _Just a bit more_ , she wills herself, knowing how exposed Brittany is now to deeper infection. She pushes her pain aside, working faster to clean the clotted blood away from the stitches. She berates herself at the sight of the hastily done sutures, Brittany's scar sure to be an ugly line marred across her otherwise smooth skin. But she's little time to dwell on her toil from the night previous. Not with her stomach growing nauseous from exertion.

She pours the small amount of whiskey over the wound, relieved when the rest of the blood melts away and all that remains is Brittany's jagged skin. It's still swollen in places, infection probably festering just beneath the surface. But Santana wishes not to risk opening Brittany's lesion to more, not without fresh sutures to close it. She laments ever helping so many last night. Had she kept but even the smallest amount of thread…

She only hopes Brittany will be able to overcome the infection that remains.

Noah helps her to wrap Brittany's arm with the torn sleeve of his uniform. The linen is far cleaner than any part of her dress, and blessedly dry. To keep the wound breathing and free of moisture is what will ensure it heals. She tries not to think what she would have done had she access to even the most rudimentary of medical tents. Or had she the courage to pilfer anything from under Quinn's watch.

What is done is done, but she still feels a coward as they walk back up to the tree line.

By the time they've returned to settle by their spot a few officers from the Southern force have approached upon horseback. In a matter of a few minutes, Santana finds herself standing in a line beside Noah amidst all their fellow captives, Brittany held once more in his arms.

She can't hear what's being shouted to them, her hearing muted against the sound of her rapidly pounding heart. Noah must repeat everything back to her as she leans against his side for support. Her eyes never stray from Brittany's face.

"They're marching us out," he tells her, expression grim as he readjusts Brittany in his hold.

Come dusk they will be settling into fields just a few miles east of Hartsville where Santana knows the Southern regiment's encampment lies.

She thinks she'll succumb to starvation before she even sees the first tent.

* * *

They make it to the camp well past nightfall and even past the expectations of the many soldiers stationed to receive them. Half are drunk if not slinking away to join in the rowdy cheers of the celebration happening just a few yards down in the camp. The few dozen sober men that remain are enough to corral the exhausted Northern soldiers toward their internment field. Many heads are bowed, feet dragging along the snow-dusted ground as the men trudge onward. Santana is barely conscious, held in the arms of large Northern soldier whom walks beside Noah. Her pains long lost to the delirium that set in two miles into the march.

She collapsed to the ground, fatigued and wasted. Vague flashes of memory surface now, concerned faces hovering overhead, Noah's voice as he pleaded for her aid. The rest of the journey was spent in a semi-lucid void, stomach pains too strong to push aside and concerns for Brittany too peeked to allow sleep to fully take her.

She doesn't think the man holding her now was the one to pick her up. How many had helped to carry her?

Her head sags against the soldier's chest as she looks to her right where Noah walks. He wears a mask of indifference on his face as he passes some of the Southern soldiers. Brittany is carried on his back, her arms slung loosely over his shoulders. She hasn't stirred all day, not once since she spoke to Santana this morning.

She continues sleeping through the reciting of their names, head resting against Santana's thighs as they lie along the cold ground. A few Northern men turn toward Santana with interest upon hearing the change in her surname. But Noah throws them each a challenging look, their attention quickly drawn back to the roll call.

Brittany sleeps through the meager supper they are provided. Barely a few spoonfuls of the driest cornmeal. It scratches at Santana's throat as she forces herself to swallow it down, her stomach quick to accept the small offer. Noah never touches his own bowl, simply pouring his rations into Santana's knowing she needs it far more than he does.

She gives him a shaky smile in thanks.

Neither touches the portion reserved for Brittany.

Brittany sleeps on, even as a light snow begins to fall a little after supper and the soldiers huddle close to their comrades for warmth. They gaze longingly at the fires down in the camp, watching as the Southern soldiers shed their jackets as they dance and sweat beside their victory flames. Santana pays them no attention, though she can sense the scowl upon Noah's face from where he sits behind Brittany wrapped in one of their blankets. He mutters curses every so often, most to deaf ears as Santana is solely focused upon tracing every contour of Brittany's face with a soft touch.

_Perhaps she'll wake as she did last time_ , she hopes though knows it was her voice that stirred sleep from heavy eyes. There are too many men nearby to risk speaking so openly now.

She pulls the blankets further atop them, shielding them from the softly falling snow. It's still cold within their nest, but a bearable temperature with their bodies entwined so closely together. Santana leans across the small space separating them to press a light kiss to Brittany's nose; which scrunches as she pulls away, blue eyes fluttering open lazily.

" _Hi_ ," Santana mouths, her heart racing excitedly to see Brittany awake and for once no pain reflected in her eyes.

The corner of Brittany's mouth quirks up ever so slightly as the beginnings of a smile tries to form.

"Are you hungry?" Santana asks her gently, brushing her fingers across Brittany's cheek.

"Bret's up?" Noah asks, elated as he peers down at the two lumps beneath the blanket to his side. Santana peels back the fabric just enough to lock eyes with him and give a nod. He's relieved to see the smile in her gaze, even if he can't see the way it must spread across her face. He was so worried for her on the march and is glad she's more in spirit now with a bit of food in her belly. "Does he want supper?"

Brittany gives a slight shake of her head despite the way she licks her lips as if nothing would please her more.

Santana knows more than to accept her reply, especially after that display. Brittany is so easy to read. "I can help you eat, Britt."

"I feel too sick," Brittany tells her, voice nothing but a breath of sound. Her eyes close. "Woozy… not flux sick."

Santana presses her forehead to Brittany's, ignoring the spike of pain in her temple as she tells her thickly, "You have an infection and will feel sick for a few days but eating will help."

"I don't want to vomit on you," Brittany confesses weakly.

Santana chuckles, brushing a soft kiss high on Brittany's cheek. "I promise I won't mind."

"Can I…" Brittany begins to ask, her breathing deepening again. "Can I later?"

"Yeah," Santana whispers. "Whenever you're ready."

"I'll keep it safe for you," Noah tells her with a smile. "No one will touch your cornmeal. Though warning, it's the foulest thing I ever put in my damn mouth."

"Did you find… Michael and Burt?" Brittany asks as sleep begins to take hold of her mind.

Noah shrinks down, a sigh withheld. Santana is equally quiet.

Brittany wonders briefly if she's fallen asleep or if perhaps the world has gone as quiet as her thoughts. Santana swirls in her vision ahead, but even unfocused as she's become Brittany can make out the sad look upon her face. She doesn't wish for Santana to look so troubled… Burt and Michael must be close by…

_They must._

No one answers her question though.

"What do you reckon they want with us?" Noah asks after a while, voice soured with his hate for the Southern regiment. "Why else bring us here?"

"Sometimes I watch ducks from my window," Brittany whispers, tired as she nuzzles closer into Santana. "So they don't fly away…"

Arms wrap behind Brittany's back as Santana pulls her closer until her head rests against her shoulder. Her wounded arm lies draped across Santana's chest, the muscles pulsating in their usual steady and painful rhythm. She wishes sleep would take her so it will cease hurting her so.

"Is he still feverish?" Noah asks, troubled.

Santana smiles, shaking her head as she hugs Brittany tight. "No, he's just fine."

"But what he said—" Noah begins to counter.

"Makes absolute sense," Santana interrupts quietly, knowing Brittany has succumbed to dreams once more. Her even breaths brush warmly against Santana's neck, heart beating calmly beneath her breasts. Santana relaxes some with Brittany held so attentively in her arms. "Think on it for a moment."

Noah shrinks down for the second time this night, quieted.

"I hope you've fallen asleep over there," Santana speaks up after a few minutes, amused. "Otherwise this prolonged silence is mortifying."

"I know what he meant," he mutters. "I just don't like it none."

Santana lets out sigh. "We're captives, what could there ever be to like?"

"Nothing, but they're playin' with us I tell you. We get food but no one to look at our wounded. Don't it strike you funny?"

"It does," she admits, for it's something that's bothered her as well. "But there's nothing can be done."

Noah carries on as if she hasn't spoken. "And you _need_ someone to check on that head of yours," he says, tone serious. "You spend so much time worryin' for Bret you forget about _you_."

Santana huddles closer to Brittany. "I'm fine."

"You're not, Santana," Noah whispers and she can imagine the concern as evident upon his face as it is in his voice. The next time he speaks his voice has lowered as he bends close. "What if you've an infection too and get just as sick as Britt? Who'll take care of you?"

Santana hasn't the time to answer, nor dwell on the terrifying truth of his worries for a voice booms out over the interment field, shaking all thoughts from her mind. "YANKS! Wake up boys!"

Santana slips Brittany from her arms as she sits up from the ground, the blanket pooling to her lap. From down the end of the field approaches a company of men from the Southern camp, some with torches wielded high in their hands, others rifles ready at arm. The snow continues to fall, denser now than earlier. Santana hugs her arms to her chest as the winter air bites unrelentingly at her cheeks. At the head of the company strides a stout hulk of a man, his body all shoulders and gait purposeful.

Her eyes flit over the insignia on his jacket. A general. The regiments' leader.

"Come out those overcoats you yanks!" He shouts as he approaches, waving for his men to file down ahead of him. The Southern soldiers boast his orders aloud as they spill down through the ranks of Northern men. Most men are roused from sleep by tugs against their collars; their coats pulled up over their heads if not ripped from off their backs.

It is only then Santana realizes the Southern army is without winter coats of their own.

She is livid.

"They can't take our coats!" Santana cries out to Noah. "This is madness!"

"Don't fight them none if they want yours," he tells her, noticing from the corner of his eye the fate of those Northern men brave enough to stand against this wrong. Rifle licks square to the back of their heads. He pulls the blanket from off his shoulders, folding it quickly before sitting down atop it. " _Do the same_!" He whispers to her urgently.

Santana scrambles to pull the blanket from over Brittany's shoulders, heart tugging in her chest as Brittany instantly curls into herself for warmth. She can't bear witnessing her coat being stripped off by Southern hands.

"Help me get hers undone," she tells Noah, hands shaking as she turns Brittany onto her back. Together they quickly work the coat from off her body. The fires of the Southern men grow brighter, closer, as they do so. Once Brittany is undone from her coat Santana wriggles free of hers as Noah slips his own down his shoulders. A few Southern men come down the line where they rest, plucking the coats from the outstretched hands of Northerners. Santana and Noah simply hold out the coats as well, pleased when the soldiers do little more than swipe them from their hands and throw them into the piles held in their arms.

It's all over in a matter of minutes.

Biting laughter splits the air as the Southern men don their new winter attire and arms loaded with coats return back to their celebrations.

Noah's scowl cuts deep into his face as he stares now at the Southern men sitting warmed by their fires in thick Northern overcoats. _It is all a laugh_ , he thinks bitterly to himself, for he knows just an hour prior they were shedding their own jackets as they danced.

_Them greybacks may need those coats come morning_ , he thinks, but tonight they have fires at their backs whilst he and all those around him have nothing.

The Northern men will freeze.

He keeps staring after them, even as Santana pulls out the blanket and tucks herself snugly back into Brittany's side.

_All monsters_ , Santana thinks, shivering as hugs Brittany close. _Every one of them._

* * *

"Hello, _Mrs. Pierce_ ," a voice trills down from above.

Santana's eyes shoot open, sleep long forgotten as she stares up toward the man who calls for her. She's unsurprised to find the nameless soldier that stole her the prior night. And like before she sees not the smile he dons beneath his mustache, only the mockery of it shining clear in his dark eyes.

"Haven't you taken enough?" she snarls up at him.

"Lieutenant Miller asked me to come fetch ya," he tells her, motioning for her to stand. "So get up."

"I'm in no condition to tend whomever he wishes me to see," she whispers harshly, eyes darting over toward Noah to ensure he remains sleeping. Naturally, he is as wide-awake as she, glaring right back up at the soldier. Santana turns back toward the proud man, her anger from earlier resurfacing as she spits out, "I could barely hold my spoon let alone be made to hold a scalpel!"

The soldier's eyes grow hard, no longer filled with their usual mirth. He bends low quickly and yanks her up to unsteady feet. Noah rises instantly; ready to launch himself into the man but Santana wretches her arm free from the soldier and shoves Noah back before he's able to endanger himself. She falls to her knees as her mind grows hazy, exhaustion once more creeping into the corners of her conscious thought.

"Please," she mutters, bracing herself along the ground with a shaky arm. "Please, leave me."

"I'll get you a proper supper," The soldier tells her, voice devoid of any inclination of emotion. "And as before you'll be returned."

"I want my coat back," Santana says, eyes narrowed as she burns a look up at him. " _All_ our coats back."

"I'm sorry," the soldier says, shrugging as he helps her to her feet. She swats away his hands but just as before he takes firm grip to her arm regardless. "We need them."

"You best bring her back to us," Noah growls, mindful to keep his distance lest a pistol be pointed to his chest.

"She will be," the soldier replies before giving a tug of Santana's arm and forcing her to follow him from the field.

Santana cannot believe she's being led away again. It is just as painful the second time, more so now than before. She steals glances back toward Noah and Brittany from over her shoulder, only the slightest bit relieved to see Noah pulling Brittany close into his arms to ensure she not freeze without Santana at her side.

As she's led into the camp Santana vows not to act a coward this time.

Whatever she's able to take she will, consequences be damned.

No one pays them any mind as she's walked through the lanes, a stark contrast to the reception she received at the previous Southern outpost. And whereas the Northern camp exhibited a sense of order there is the distinctive feel of chaos to the layout of the Southern encampment. Missing are the narrow lanes of soldier tents, those lucky enough to even have a roof above their heads no matter the material find spaces between trees to pitch their home. There's a variety of structures; logs piled in slopes, canvas stretched between poles. Anywhere a man is able to gain sleep protected from the snow something has been put in place.

Yet the closer they draw into the center of camp, the more order reigns once again. Tents are dirtied but immaculate in structure, the armory not just a sole tent but smartly spread among five or more throughout the crossing lanes. Santana can see the General whom ordered them from their coats sitting just outside his tent, feet propped up on a chair as he plays a round of cards with fellow leaders. They pass a cook's tent, the smell of slow roasting meat invading her every sense and sparking her mouth to salivate. Her attention is ripped away as she's forced down onto a bench.

A passing medic has his bowl stolen straight from his hands by Santana's captor. Whatever words he wishes to shout out still on his tongue as he meets the taller man's eyes. With a shaky nod he ducks back inside the cook's tent to fetch himself another meal.

"Eat," the soldier instructs, throwing the overflowing bowl of steaming soup down on the table in front of her. It sloshes against the table, good portions dripping down to sear against her dress. The heat is a welcome distraction from the cold so wrapped about her bones. And the soup smells devilishly wonderful. Santana hates herself for thinking so.

She pushes it away.

The soldier leans down, sliding it slowly back in front of her as he whispers, "I could just take you to the lieutenant if that's what you wish."

Santana continues glaring up at him even as she picks up the spoon. There's a flash of an expression across the soldier's face, satisfaction she thinks. _The arrogant bastard._

She eats slowly just to spite him.

"Santana?"

Santana halts the next spoonful of soup to her mouth as Quinn's voice spills into her broken ear. Even muted as it sounded she'd recognize that airy tone anywhere. The nurse approaches, looking anxious and entirely surprised to see her.

"Miss Fabray," the soldier greets her with a tip of his cap. Santana doesn't think she's ever heard him sound so… cordial. "You should be gettin' back to your quarters."

Quinn pays him no mind, instead coming to sit beside Santana on the bench. Uncomfortably close, Santana notes, purposely sliding away from the agitated woman. Quinn scoots nearer anyway.

"Could I a word with her?" Quinn asks the soldier, pointedly staring to a spot just over his shoulder. The soldier bristles at being addressed so flippantly. "Please Stanley?

"I'm to escort her to Lieutenant Miller," Stanley replies. Santana finds him name wildly unfitting. A John or perhaps a Thomas. Stanley's aren't so… threatening.

"And you will," Quinn tells him, smiling sweetly. "Once she's finished eating, correct?"

"She's—" Stanley begins to say.

"I can _handle_ her," Quinn tells him, indignant. "She's not going to run."

"I'll be just there," Stanley acquiesces after a moment, nodding to where Quinn was previously looking. And it's evidently clear to Santana he must bend to Quinn's whim on countless occasions. As he walks a good deal away Santana can't help but wonder whom else Quinn has charmed about her fingers. Santana stares over at the woman, a new-found, though fleeting respect formed of this observation.

There's a soft prod of something against Santana's thigh. Discreetly she looks down to find Quinn holding a small loaf of bread. "For your friends," she whispers as Santana takes the bread and stuffs it deep into her skirt pocket. "I saw those meals they were prepping for you all. They were barely enough for a mouse let alone a man."

"Thank you," Santana murmurs, appreciative as she picks up her spoon again to resume eating.

Quinn gives a small nod before waving toward Stanley. "She's all yours!"

Stanley makes his way back over looking for all purposes like a berated dog even in his imposing form. He leans casually against a tent pole beside Santana as Quinn picks herself up from the bench.

"Didn't seem like you got much outta this one," he notes, deadpan as Quinn brushes down her nurses apron.

"Just idle woman chatter," she says, giving him a winning grin. "Thank you for indulging me."

Santana swears his ears grow red in reaction.

They watch Quinn walk away, both appreciative, yet Santana knows Stanley is for an entirely different reason.

* * *

The medical tent of the Southern regiment is a cesspool of dysfunction and disease. Not one patient sleeps soundly on their cot; all seem to be in various fits of pain, suffering silently with leather belts held between their teeth to quell their cries. Their eyes are quick to shift and lock upon the nearest medic whom passes, gazes begging for relief from their misery. Santana follows behind Stanley as he pulls her through the throngs of men toward a partitioned corner near the side of the tent. She finds it hard to breathe, the tent so congested with bodies the air has grown humid and reeks of death.

Quinn hurries up to Santana's side, walking beside her as if she too is escorting her toward the lieutenant. A fact that very much perturbs Stanley if the curious glances toward Quinn as they walk on are any indication.

"Miss Fabray, you're not on duty this evening," Stanley reminds her but Quinn pays him no heed.

"It's too loud to sleep tonight," she tells him. "Thought I could be of more help in here."

"These are not matters for you to concern yourself with," he warns but again Quinn waves off his words.

"I was there with Santana for the procedure," she reminds him, voice edged with tetchiness. "If anyone is to claim she's not done her job I will vouch for her efforts."

_The Colonel_ , Santana thinks, stomach rising up to her throat. _He must be dead._

She feels her meal may resurface now as she's pushed inside the curtain partition. The lieutenant is already waiting, standing impatiently beside a man Santana assumes from the blood smeared across the sleeves of his coat must be the regiment's surgeon. She wonders if he's the same drunkard Quinn spoke of, and is given her answer as he plucks from within his double-breasted coat a small flask.

He takes a swig, wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand. His eyes roam over her form, a suspicious sneer crossing his features as he licks his lips. Santana squares her shoulders against his appraising.

"I assume by now you're aware of why you stand before us," Lieutenant Miller's voice is clip, his anger repressed with a tight grind of his teeth.

"The colonel has died," Santana says. She can feel Quinn come to stand just behind her right side and a soft touch is soon laid to her lower back.

"You were ordered to save him!" Lieutenant Miller bellows at her as he advances.

"And I did!" Santana counters, heated as she motions toward the surgeon. "It is not my fault your _doctor_ let him deteriorate so!"

"I—" the surgeon grows flustered and tries to speak up only to be drowned out by Lieutenant Miller's furious cry.

" _You speak lies!_ "

"I _saved_ his life last night! I cannot help it if transport has—" a hard smack is delivered to Santana's cheek, enough force behind the hit to send her crashing into Quinn's side. Slender arms are quick to steady her as she sucks air deep into her lungs. Her hands shake with unbridled temper as she clings to Quinn's shoulders and rights herself. There's a familiar sensation of blood filling her ear and a trickle of warmth along her neck as it drips down her skin. Quinn's eyes are wide as they meet her own, a flash of panic painted in shades of deep green. They turn hard as they focus past Santana's head.

"She's not responsible for the colonel's death," Quinn tells them, meeting Lieutenant Miller's enraged gaze evenly and with a calm even he is surprised to see upon her face.

"Miss Fabray, your word is _needless_ ," he spits. "Step aside."

"Let her prove she can help," Quinn pleads, letting go of Santana in order to step ahead and keep her from Lieutenant Miller's sight. "We've so many here still in need of aid and I can attest to her skill. Major Eckhart, _please_ ," she appeals to the surgeon whom stares at both women with a quizzical knot in his brow.

"There are many lying in their own filth," Major Eckhart says after a moment, waving dismissively, and Santana notes, a might tipsily out the curtain. He leers at her. "I trust you can clean an ass."

"You wish to keep a bullet from your head tonight woman?" Lieutenant Miller sneers, peering over Quinn's shoulder. His eyes lock with Santana's, a smirk forming upon his lips. "Clean their shit."

"You too, Miss Fabray," Major Eckhart adds, eyes narrowing at Quinn. "You know more 'en to speak out of turn."

Quinn pulls her lips taut but nods in accordance.

Stanley is assigned to watch over them as they work.

Both women are grateful he says nothing in way to shame them more.

* * *

Quinn helps her to clean after, filling an empty bucket out behind the medical tent with nearby stream water. She sets an oil lamp to the ground beside to keep the cold air from touching upon the already frigid water. Santana bends down by the bucket, hastily scrubbing at her skin, desperate to rid the grime and human waste from her hands. Quinn refills the bucket at least thrice until Santana's satisfied she's not a single infectious spot left upon her. Her arms are rubbed red and raw, cuticles swollen from the sheer force of her determination.

Quinn squats down beside her as she begins to clean her own arms.

"You should never have said anything," Santana tells her quietly, sitting on the ground with her legs draw up to her chest. Quinn ceases her washing, turning her head over her shoulder to quirk a brow in question up at the shaken woman.

"Would you rather have been shot?" Quinn counters, unbelieving of such a statement. Santana is not a stupid woman; she's proved that… but this meek version of her sitting here now? Quinn does not recognize her.

Santana digs her chin down into the fold of her arms atop her knees. "No," she mutters.

"Then don't say such stupid things," Quinn tells her, returning to her cleanse.

"I could have spoken for myself," Santana counters, voice layered with frustration.

"Yes and you've a bleeding ear to thank for that," Quinn points out.

Santana let's out a groan, legs falling to cross in front of her as she appeals, "Look, the truth of the matter is I _do_ need your help. The bread, the suture thread from last night, all of it."

"You're welcome," Quinn says, smiling wryly as she looks back toward Santana. "Is it truly so hard for you to say thank you?"

Santana doesn't answer at first and Quinn's once haughty demeanor shifts toward concern upon the nervous look in Santana's gaze.

"What is it?" she asks softly.

Santana is hesitant to speak the truth. With Stanley hovering about them inside the tent it was impossible to have taken a moment to steal a few much needed supplies... and now that they've completed their work she's sure to be returned. Empty handed.

She cannot return with nothing.

"I need more," Santana admits quietly. "I was hoping to take some supplies tonight."

Quinn squints at her. "What kind of supplies?"

"Fresh bandages, some morphine pills if I could find any, a field kit or more suture thread and—"

Quinn holds up a hand to stop her. "That's more than just a loaf of bread."

"My friend's arm has grown infected," Santana implores, and for once Quinn can clearly see the concern this woman holds for her companions. Sore hands fidget with the bunched material of her dress whilst deep lines carve paths across dark brows. She fears Quinn's reply… her rejection. "Please," Santana's voice has gone impossibly soft. "This is my only chance to see something can be done for he- _him_ ," she catches herself before too much is revealed, heart pounding relentlessly in her chest anyway.

Quinn ponders on the plea, knowing what her answer is to be but thinking upon how best to voice it. She wants to help, truly does wish to bring less pain to those suffering. She is, after all, here to aid those in need. _Sides be damned_. But Quinn is also selfish by nature, something she's known of herself for quite some time. And here sits an opportunity in front of her, one with large beseeching brown eyes and a desire she can see will cause her to agree to anything if Quinn will so much as simply nod her head.

She cannot let this moment pass and thus nods her acceptance. "I'll see what I can do," she tells her. "If you could do something for me in return?"

Quinn grins as Santana rushes out, "Anything, simply name it."

"I wish to be taught medicine," Quinn says, smiling hopefully. Santana sputters, choking on the absurdity of the request. "Cease laughing so! Women are frowned upon as even a medic's assistant but here you are on par with the _best_ of surgeons!"

It's a flattering declaration, but still fronted by the most impossible of desires. "You expect me to teach you the entirety of human medical science in a five minute chat?"

"No! Obviously that's impossible," Quinn tells her, blushing as she realizes how poorly she worded her wish. "But even just knowing how to spot an infection, or what the difference between the fevers are?"

"I cannot teach you that _now_ , you know your insufferable man-pup Stanley will be coming for me soon."

"I can come to the field in the early dawn," Quinn says, scooting forward on the ground and wearing that intolerably hopeful smile on her face. "My man-pup will escort me."

"How are you so sure he will?"

"He will," Quinn grins, it's a rather malicious look that crosses her otherwise innocent features. Her gaze shifts toward Santana's bloodstained ear. "And may I please for the love of god tend to that thing festering on the side of your head?"

Santana lifts her fingers to the wound, wincing even at the slightest touch placed against the sensitive swelling. "It's not so horrid."

"Anymore atrocious and I may need to chop your head off before gangrene sets in."

Santana stares over at Quinn, incredulous. "Are you truly so stupid or was that some disastrous attempt at humor?"

Quinn stares at her with equal skepticism. "I'm finding it harder and harder to believe these so called friends of yours even exist, what with your _endearing_ personality."

Santana scoffs. "I'm an _amazing_ friend."

"Do speak louder," Quinn says with a languid roll of her eyes as she tosses the soiled water toward a nearby tree. "I'm afraid I couldn't quite catch that over the _arrogance_ you drowned it in."

"Do you wish to learn medicine or not?" Santana asks her, incensed as Quinn gathers some fresh water from the stream.

"Do you wish for your _friends_ to receive aid or not?" Quinn snaps back, dropping down to Santana's side with the bucket in hand. She retrieves a fresh linen cloth from her apron pocket and dips it into the water.

"For someone who is so _adamant_ they aren't a monster, es una grande."

Quinn presses the cloth gingerly against Santana's injury. "Stop talking," she grumbles.

They exchange no further words as Quinn tends to her wound.

* * *

Santana is stirred from sleep in the early dawn hours, the sky still dark and stars bright in the clear heavens. Quinn hovers overhead, breath fogging against her lips as she motions for Santana to sit up. Santana is reluctant to leave what little warmth she is able to garner from sleeping by Brittany's side, but knows if Quinn has come, it is because she's kept her promise. Shivering she carefully untangles herself from Brittany, cheeks warm as she realizes Quinn is watching her every move with great interest.

If Quinn notices anything of the embrace they once held ach other, she says nothing, waiting for Santana to rise.

Once she's sure Brittany and Noah will not stir, she turns to Quinn.

"Here," Quinn whispers, quickly handing Santana a bundled coat. As the material slides across Santana's hands, the fabric strikes something familiar in her mind. There may be little light falling down on them from the stars but she knows the coat she holds is her own. And what more, from what she can feel, Quinn has tucked a small amount of supplies inside the pockets. Santana's thankful look is lost on Quinn whom peers over her shoulder to where Stanley stands with his back facing them just a ways down the crowded field. Relived he's listened to her instruction she turns back to Santana. "I was able to find yours and then grabbed what I could. A roll of bandages, some morphine pills, pieces of dried meat—"

"Wait," Santana halts her hasty stream of words, the unnerved look in Quinn's eyes finally giving her pause. She's not just nervous about Stanley; something else entirely has her on edge. "What's happened?"

Quinn lets out a shaky breath and steadies her hands by tucking her hair back behind her ears. "The regiment is disbanding for winter so my company is headed south, we've a good hospital down there for our injured," she explains and yet Santana fails to see why such news would be hard to deliver. Though it would explain why she keeps shooting looks over her shoulder to the camp. Best ensuring no one is awake readying for departure and sees her, Santana thinks. Quinn's expression grows more enthused as she continues; "I've heard word they are taking you all north today, to the parole camp in Virginia. You should be traded within the month!" she grins.

"We're to march today?" Santana asks quietly, still not wishing for Noah or Brittany to rise. "To the North?"

Quinn smirks. "Did I not fix you up nice and proper?" she asks with a soft laugh. " _Yes_ , you're going back north."

Santana does not return her enthusiasm. She glances down to Brittany, her throat tightening as she dares to think upon what will happen to her if they are to head north… where winter is sure to be less forgiving. "Without coats? Or food?" Santana hisses out, knowing full well the General probably ordered this march for that very reason alone. No use keeping the Northern men here, sharing in his regiment's rations. _Send the boys home_ , he probably bellowed to his captains. _And of those that fall at least we'll gain a good set of boots_. Santana feels sick at the very notion. "How do they expect half these men to survive that trip?"

"I don't know…" Quinn answers softly, quickly recognizing the dire situation soon at hand. She nods down toward Santana's coat. "I thought these might help."

"Not at all," Santana snarls, though amends. This march isn't Quinn's doing. "Sorry, thank you."

"I wish there was more I could do," Quinn tells her, stealing one last look over her shoulder to where Stanley is now watching her nervously. "I best be going before they begin waking you all," she says, turning back to Santana. A small smile pulls to her lips. "I'm glad to have met you, Santana. Perhaps without all… this we could have even been friends."

"I could… tolerate that," Santana says warily.

Quinn's grin broadens. "Keep safe."

Santana can't genuinely return the gesture. "You as well."

Quinn heads back to camp with Stanley, no one the wiser of her early visit. Santana remains awake, watching the sun slowly rise up over the Southern camp. Her coat is slung over her shoulders and does little to keep the chill from her chest but she cares not. Her back is warm and Brittany rests soundly at her side. She breathes the cold air deep into her lungs, not at all bothered by the sting that burns down her throat.

She must get used to the cold, she thinks. For once Brittany wakes she will forgo her coat in order to keep her better half warm. From the distance, Santana can vaguely hear the sound of heavy approaching footsteps.

A few dozen Southern soldiers walk toward the internment as they did the night before, arms ladled with bowls for the Northern captive's morning meal. The last meal they will receive until they set foot back in northern territory, she thinks.

Looking around at the men as they wake and accept their rations Santana cannot help but notice how many wounded are among the captives. She assisted but only the smallest fraction of them that night beside the riverbank in Hartsville. She sees many suffering broken arms, others nursing twisted ankles, concussions rendered in those with their heads squeezed between their knees, and fever in the ones lying upon the ground with bowls untouched at their sides… so many are sick and weakened, so many broken and battered.

They won't survive such a journey.

"May I garner the attention of those able-bodied enough to stand?" A Southern officer shouts down to the mass of Northern bodies from atop his horse. "You are all to be taken to Virginia where you will be placed and accounted for within a camp better suited to your needs! Parole will be offered weekly with promise of release after a month! If you are able to march stand now and fall in line!"

"And if we can't?" A Northern man yells out, obviously suffering from an abrasion to the side of his head.

The officer's reply comes quick, "Wounded will be transported to our medical outpost a few days journey south! Bear in mind with winter upon us the next caravan north will not be till January! You have a choice in this matter; a decision will not be made for you!"

"Santana, I'll carry her," Noah tells her as the Northern men begin to murmur amongst themselves. From out the corner of her eye she can see most already standing to their feet and forming ranks ready for departure. "Come on, let's fall in."

"She won't make it," Santana whispers, shaking her head. "She needs help, Noah. _True_ help."

"She'll be fine!" He whispers urgently.

"Have you forgotten what a winter in the north means?" She hisses up at him. "A quarter of those men will die along the road of exposure or frostbite and they've more blood in their bodies and stronger hearts than her. I can't risk her life like that Noah…"

Noah wraps Santana in a tight hug just as tears begin spilling from her eyes. "We'll keep her warm, you know we will."

"And who will keep us warm?" she asks, pulling away to look into his eyes. "If you wish to leave I… I un-understand."

He seems hesitant, eyes darting toward the lines of Northern men that grow longer by the second. Everyone is leaving; no one wishes to be moved south.

To them the risk is worthwhile.

"Santana, are you sure?" he asks her, eyes never once straying from her own. She knows the unspoken question of his words.

It is why she gives a single nod.

_There is no choice to be had_ , Santana thinks. Not if Brittany is to live.

And with heavy hearts she and Noah remain behind with Brittany, watching as their fellow men disappear north over the hillside.


	19. Chosen Paths

They quickly become _the_ joke amongst the Southern soldiers; the three Yanks who deigned to stay. _Absolutely_ _cracked_ , is what many of the men think as the three are led through camp toward the caravan headed for the medical outpost. Some of them keep their thoughts to themselves, be it from some semblance of respect or forced etiquette, but others are more than happy to approach candid in their opinions. Heckles are shouted and spat with drawls that grate upon Noah and Santana's ears. Slurs made all the worse by coarse speech. They've lost count of the Southern men who spit at their feet and the ones who have shoved them as they pass.

No one cared to look twice at Santana as she was led through the camp in the dark of night. So she doesn't quite understand why they suddenly feel the need to demean her and Noah now. These men have no liquor in their bellies to surge such bold disdain forward. This is sheer antagonism. Unfiltered hate.

Noah holds tighter to Brittany whenever they draw too near, the snarl upon his lips a caution against crossing his path. By his side Santana keeps close to where Brittany's head rests against his shoulder, her gaze set in a threat to any who deem to try and spit upon the unconscious woman.

Their words she cannot stop, but their malicious actions she is more than ready to rebuff.

_Let them try_ , she thinks, digging her nails deep into the flesh of her palms. She is ready for them, just _waiting_ for one reckless enough to challenge her.

Stanley lets out a snort ahead and Santana's attention snaps toward him. She just catches a glimpse of his eyes rolling as he turns forward once more. Of course he finds her fury droll, she thinks. It is because of him that they now walk through this camp at such a sluggish pace, easy targets for ridicule and scorn. His usual clip pace is forgotten in favor of an unhurried gait as he leads them further into the throngs of men carrying out their orders of disbandment. He doesn't often turn to check upon his captives save for the occasional look spared over his shoulder to ensure the insolence of his fellow soldier has been received.

Santana wishes to smack the smug grin from his face whenever he does so.

Another heckle is hollered and the hairs instantly rise along the back of her neck. "Do you yield as easily to a bed as your men do upon a field?"

"I've a dick willin' to volunteer!" a man quickly supplies and laughter erupts down the lane in response.

Even Stanley chuckles along with the soldiers.

Santana fears the welcome they will receive at the medical outpost if this is the sendoff they're being shown.

And what more, what this will mean for Brittany.

She ignores the subsequent hollers, too lost in thoughts of the imagined atrocities they are soon to face. Questions spin in her mind, anxieties growing stronger with every ensuing fear. How deep in the South must they travel? Will they be forced to labor? Puck to build alongside the dark-skinned? She to clean waste in a deplorable hospital? Will they even be _fed_? Will Brittany be given help? Will she be found as a woman?

Santana can no longer hear the jeers of the Southern men; so far removed they are from her mind. Her steps are mechanical, a stark contrast to the harsh erratic pounds her heart renders against her ribs. She cannot let these men discover Brittany. _No one_. She must always be on her guard, never one moment spent away from Brittany's company.

_And I cannot control any of it_ , she laments, pained as she looks upon Brittany's face.

For the first time since hearing of the parole camp she regrets her choice to stay behind.

Perhaps they could have survived…

She need only look at Brittany's pale cheeks to affirm otherwise.

This is the only choice.

They slowly meander through the rest of the camp toward a small company of men amassing supplies beside a caravan. None of the carts bear upon their sides the insignia she has grown accustomed to on the medical carts in Northern camps. But the field ambulances ahead, she more than recognizes. At least a dozen are positioned in an even line, cavalry boys busy hitching horses to their traces. Even from afar Santana can see the many injured packed inside, far more occupying a single wagon than ever intended. She won't be surprised if the journey to the outpost is riddled with stops for broken axels and exhausted horses.

Santana hopes Brittany sleeps through most of the trip. Having to witness more horses being put to death would only make her troubles all the worse.

Stanley brings them to a stop just before they reach the ambulance line, eyes scanning the men carrying out their orders for departure. Noah gives Santana's shoulder a soft nudge and nods in question toward Stanley's back. Santana shrugs; she's no idea whom he searches for let alone where he is to take them next. Her stomach is a twisted mess of worries and her only prayer is that her fears are not reflected upon her face.

It would not do well for Stanley to see just how terrified she is in this moment.

She keeps her head bowed and gaze focused upon her scuffed boots in precaution.

After a moment Stanley turns, satisfied by what he's found. He barely registers Santana's purposeful avoidance, his sole attention turned to Noah. "You there," he says, fixing Noah with an indifferent stare. Noah instinctively shifts Brittany in his arms, holding her closer. Stanley rolls his eyes at the action and motions for Noah to lower her. "Put that man down here and get to helpin' our wounded into the wagons."

"I won't be—" Noah begins to protest, only to have Stanley continue speaking above him.

"Normans here will take you to the field hospital and show you how to carry 'em out," he says, pointing over toward one of the medic staff whom gives a nod in response.

Noah doesn't move.

Santana can see a twitch of annoyance crease Stanley's eyes. "I don't like repeatin' myself none."

"I'm not a _slave_ ," Noah growls.

An eyebrow quirks high on Stanley's forehead.

" _Noah_ ," Santana warns him in a whisper. " _Just do as he says_."

"As far as you're concerned, _mudsill,_ I am your keeper," Stanley tells him, voice low. He runs a hand through his slicked-back hair as he approaches, demeanor reserved and commanding as he comes to a stop just a foot away from Noah. He stands a good head taller than Noah, a fact Noah is more than bothered about if the scowl rooted upon his lips is any indication. Stanley clicks his tongue. "But I'm a fair man, I'll give you your _choice_. Either heed my order or I'll send you and your useless friend here right back into that warm reception my fellow soldiers were so kind to give ya," he grins, a wide toothy smile that causes Noah to bristle and curl Brittany further against his chest.

Santana grabs Noah's nearest arm; surprised by the slight quiver she can feel in his muscles. Be if from exertion or fury she knows not. Noah won't look to her, nor has he taken his eyes from Stanley's coat lapels. Wool that once kept the cold from a Northern man's bones now placed on the back of the underserving. His stare is hard, the line of his jaw suddenly ever-so-sharp.

" _Please_ ," she begs softly. _Please think of Brittany_.

Stanley smirks down at her as he leans toward Noah to say, "And given your outstanding record of making the right choices this morn, I'm confident you'll choose right again."

Noah's eyes dart up to Stanley's, a look exchanged that Santana misses in the height disparity. But Stanley's grin grows victorious as he takes a couple steps back and folds his arms across his chest.

Ever so carefully, Noah sets Brittany down along the ground.

Stanley grins, triumphant. "Perhaps you yanks aren't so dumb after all."

Noah makes to join Normans, but not before ensuring he gives Stanley's shoulder a good knock with his own as he passes.

The hit barely causes the taller man to sway.

"He's a stubborn lad, isn't he?" Stanley muses as Noah reluctantly follows Normans back toward the field hospital. Santana crouches down beside Brittany, a hand instinctively laid upon her shoulder.

"And you're a bastard," Santana remarks.

"I _am_ a bastard. I won't fault you that claim none," Stanley chuckles as he climbs a top a pile of crates waiting to be packed. He nods down toward Brittany. "If you want to get him help than see to it these supplies get on this here cart."

Santana's brow furrows. Has he really just offered… aid? "Help?" she repeats, dumfounded.

"Were you not payin' any attention when I mentioned how I feel about repeatin' myself?" Stanley counters, though seems amused nonetheless. He gives a shake of his head and leans back against the crates, kicking his feet up to rest against the ones stacked to his front. "I reckon Miss Quinn will find you soon enough and put up her usual fuss. Just leave him there, she's like a gnat to rawhide that girl is, especially when it comes to hurtin' boys."

Santana can't quite believe this is the same man who just walked them through such misery. If Quinn is to come, and in that vein offer help openly, then Santana is to be sure Quinn can easily find them. She slips her arms beneath Brittany's shoulders, ready to haul her up and position her more comfortably propped against the crates. She manages to lift her torso a few inches from the ground when Stanley gives a few disproving clicks of his tongue.

"Did I say to move your feller?" He asks her.

Santana does not let go of Brittany. "I'm not going to leave him out here to be trampled upon!"

"Why you think I'm sittin' up here then?" Stanley rebukes, giving a solid knock to the crate he sits a top.

Santana lets out a scoff. "I don't typically question the egotism of the _lofty_ -minded."

A few horses are led by, their breadth far too close for Santana's taste. She glares up at Stanley, surely he must see the truth to her words now. _Bastard or not he still retains sight._

Stanley relents with a grunt, waving for her to continue. "Move him and then get to work, Pierce," he mutters, crossing his arms across his chest as he leans back against the topmost crate. "And no tryin' anything. I'll be sitting right here watching you."

Without further word Santana quickly arranges Brittany beside the crates, ensuring her surgeon's coat is snuggly wrapped around the courier's shoulders. She shivers against a chill wind rolling through the trees, momentarily regretting gifting their blankets to the men whom helped her beside the river in Hartsville. _They need it more_ , she reminds herself as she buttons up the coat further along Brittany's chest. Her hand instinctively moves to brush some hair from back over Brittany's forehead but she catches herself before she's able, knowing Stanley's eyes are fixed upon her every move. She looks up toward him, her suspicions confirmed as he stares down at her keenly. He raises his thick brows slowly, the unspoken comment more than received.

But he voices it aloud anyway, "I'm not any closer to the ground here, lass."

Keeping her eyes upon him Santana grabs one of the crates with far more force than need be. She's both surprised and pleased to find it nowhere near as heavy as she anticipated. In fact she'd gather it is entirely empty. But again, the box bears no mark to signify what it once must have held. _Decent meals perhaps_ , Santana thinks to herself as she loads it into the high walled cart. She hopes the rest will fare much the same.

A steady stream of soldiers continue to deposit crates near the side of the cart as Santana works, her forehead quick to accumulate with sweat even given the cold lingering in the air. Brittany remains sleeping propped up against a few and Santana checks upon her every second or third round about she makes. Stanley keeps watch over them from his perch, his rifle knocking against the side every so often whenever he deigns to give it a kick in boredom. He whistles a tune; heedful to increase his volume to reflect the deepening sneer upon Santana's lips.

It is all good fun, he thinks, tormenting the mouthy doctor of the North. A woman needed to know her place. Be reminded of just whom it is the law holds above her. Quite literally, he muses, rapping his fingers in a steady rhythm against a wooden crate top.

Santana hopes he accidently shoots his hand off.

A loud crash sounds from a few yards off, giving her a reprieve when Stanley instantly jumps down from atop the boxes. Santana cannot see where he runs off toward but can more than hear his voice carry back to her.

"Miss Fabray! Are you all right?" he calls, a twinge of concern laced into his tone that causes Santana's eyes to involuntarily roll. Of course he'd rush to _her_ side. The man-pup cannot help himself from the beck and call of… It is only then the name registers in her head.

_Quinn has found us._

Santana leans out past the stack of crates in hopes of simply spotting the woman but instead finds the surprised eyes of Quinn Fabray quickly fixated upon her own.

They remain locked in a stare for a second more until the surprised expression falls from Quinn's face. In an instant those same wide muddy eyes have hardened and Quinn's once soft brow dips impossibly low. She pushes roughly by Stanley, leaving the confused man in her wake as she makes her way to Santana. Without so much as a word she grabs Santana by the upper arm and drags her behind the cart and out of earshot.

" _Santana_!" Quinn hisses, letting her go with a shove. "Why are you here? I gave you _everything_ you could need!"

"It's not enough, you _know_ it's not," Santana tells her, mindful to keep her voice lowered.

"Miss Quinn, you _cannot_ —" Stanley rounds the cart only to halt his tongue at the withering glare Quinn has concentrated upon him.

" _A moment, Stanley_ ," Quinn grits out through clenched teeth. " _Please_."

Stanley relents with grunt, retreating back toward the crate stack.

Quinn whips back toward Santana, incensed as she asks, "And you think we have something better here?"

"Not _here_ ," Santana repeats, growling as she rolls her eyes. " _South_ , at the medical outpost. You mentioned there was a good hospital, they must be one in the same."

"No, no, no! You should have gone _North_!" Quinn insists, gesturing wildly back toward the internment field. "They don't treat the Northern soldiers at our hospital, _they leave you to the camp to die_."

Santana blinks, face paling. "W-what?"

"There's a camp, god you can't even call it a camp," Quinn groans, running her hands through her mussed hair. She looks as though she hasn't slept all night, eyes unsteady as they lock once more with Santana's. "It was a mill once but now it's used to hold the wounded Northern captives. You'll be lucky if one of those soldiers even gives you a meal let alone allows you to see a medic. They're entirely unsympathetic."

"And we're being sent there?" Santana asks as she reaches forward and grabs Quinn by the arms to hold the agitated woman still. "Why did they not tell us this? Why didn't you?"

Quinn sighs. "No one likes hearing how a wounded horse isn't worth more than the bullet to be buried in its head."

"We're to be shot?" Santana cries out but quickly pulls her lips between her teeth to keep any more shouts from spilling out her mouth. It doesn't stop her eyes from filling with the rage her words cannot convey.

" _No!"_ Quinn whispers hotly. "No, it's just a saying!"

"I hate Southern ways!" Santana shouts at her as quietly as she's able. "Why can't you just come out right and tell me we're being lead to slaughter! Talking in riddles makes it all the worse!"

"I never said you were going to be shot!" Quinn exclaims in much the same tone.

"You called me a wounded horse not worth more than the bullet they will soon put in my head!" Santana tells her, breathing ever so fitful as she hisses straight into Quinn's face. " _WHAT ELSE AM I TO INFER FROM THAT?_ "

"It was a _metaphor_!" Quinn groans, pushing Santana away sharply. Santana's back hits the cart, jostling the small amount of crates she's positioned inside. Quinn feels need to apologize but instead snarls out, "I was trying to make it sound better!"

Santana pushes away from cart, gritting her teeth against the flash of pain erupting in her head. "You are doing a piss poor job of it!" she tells Quinn, advancing toward her once more. "Just tell me what is going to happen to us!"

"You're going to the mill camp," Quinn tells her evenly, keeping Santana at arms length. "It will be horrid but you will _not_ be shot."

Santana steps back, letting out a loud and exasperated huff. "Was that truly so difficult?"

Quinn grows uneasy. "Someone may try to… force himself on you."

"Oh, _wonderful_ ," Santana says throwing her hands into the air as she makes a dramatic point of scowling furiously up at Quinn Fabray. "I _love_ camps with prospects of rape. They are obviously my preferred, right next to ones where I am _confused for a wounded horse and shot_."

"You wanted the truth, did you not?"

"You need to stop talking before I find a way ensure you never do again," Santana says, hating the way her voice cracks and betrays just how truly terrified she is. Her body gives into the fear coursing quickly through her veins and she slumps against the cart, eyes snapping shut to trap the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. " _Fuck_ , Quinn."

"I'm sorry, Santana," Quinn says softly, hesitant as she places a hand over Santana's shoulder. When Santana doesn't brush her hand aside she ventures on. "Look, for what it's worth until we reach the camp I'll be by your side and provide whatever aid I'm able."

Santana is grateful for the offer, but it doesn't help knowing what's soon to come. Her stare feels dead to Quinn, chilling her even despite the heat flushed in her cheeks. "You are the last person I wish to spend my final few days of _relative_ freedom with."

Quinn knows the spite is spoken from a place of anguish. She doesn't blame Santana for the harsh words. She rather expected them to be more biting if she's honest about the matter. Yet there is one matter Quinn knows Santana is more than willing to bend upon. "Your friend, the one with the infected arm. You stayed for him, didn't you?" Quinn asks quietly.

Tears fall unapologetic down Santana's cheek as her chin dips and she turns her head from Quinn's searching eyes. "Yes…"

"I think I can arrange for him to ride in one of the wagons with me, until we get to the camp that is," Quinn says, hoping that offer will give Santana even the briefest of reprieves.

But Santana is shaking her head, looking as if that very offer has driven a knife into her chest. "No! It-it's all right, Noah will carry him."

Quinn hates to say it, but feels she must. "You'll want him at his strongest when you arrive at the camp."

The warning is left unsaid but Santana feels it piercing deep into her gut regardless.

She holds Quinn's gaze for a moment before giving a nod, imploring, "If I were allowed to walk beside the cart—"

"Consider it done," Quinn tells her, wincing as she realizes. "You may be shackled but—"

"I don't care," Santana tells her, steadfast. "Drape me in chains for all it's worth so long as I can _see_ him."

Quinn has seldom seen such loyalty, let alone devotion, in one mere soul. _Hell_ , she thinks, she's never seen even a lick of compassion displayed at all until she was sent to this god-awful war and introduced to Stanley. He was the first man to ever greet her with a genuine smile, bashful as it was as he pointed off toward where the nurses were to gather for orientation. But there is a distinctive difference between the kindness imparted to a stranger from a place of good intentions and the sacrifice of self Santana has just committed to without so much as a blink of her eyes. All for one man.

Quinn thinks her mad and yet at once is envious of such fidelity. "You must really care for him," is all she can think to say in response.

"I do," Santana replies simply. "I care for all my friends."

"But him especially," Quinn corrects, watching Santana's expression closely.

Santana nods, unashamed. "Yes, him especially."

That's all the answer Quinn needs. With a squeeze of Santana's shoulder she releases the woman and gives her a smile. "I'll see if I can get you both in the wagon."

"Quinn, if this jeopardizes—"

"Jeopardizes what? My outstanding ranks here at the bottom?" She says with a bitter chuckle. Her expression turns gentle once more as she smiles knowingly over at Santana. "And was that also a hint of concern I sensed there?"

Santana lets out a tired breath. "You're helping me, _again_ , when you've no reason to."

"Well, I _am_ still hoping you'll teach me what you can," Quinn reminds her.

Santana's response is immediate. "Until my feet enter that hellmouth consider yourself apprenticed."

* * *

There is no space for Brittany in the medical wagons, a fact that incenses Quinn more than it does Santana. Given Noah's task and the already overcrowded wagons she knew it was inevitable. Noah will have to carry her and she only hopes he's in far better condition than she feels at the present moment. Santana is exhausted from hauling crates into the cart all morning and could barely stand upon her feet once the last was slid into place and the gate latched. Her arms tingle even now as she leans slumped beside Brittany against the back wheel.

She can see Stanley from through the small slit in her heavy eyelids. He stands amongst a few of his fellow soldiers, chatting amiably. It's strange watching his moustache curl up into a sincere smile. He reminds her a lot of Scott Cooper, an ass if ever there was one. They'd be fast friends, she thinks, bastards it seemed were always in good company with one another. Breeding ideals of hate and barely treading the waters of their own foolishness. He laughs with his comrades, his own chuckles far more reserved than the loud barks of his friends. It's hard for her to imagine Stanley anything aside from the monster she's come to regard him as, let alone a friend to another person.

Than again, she reminds herself, those men are no more human than the wooden wheel at her back.

Brittany shifts beside her, a warm cheek coming to rest against Santana's shoulder. Whatever bitter thoughts once coursed through Santana's mind disband at the movement. Instead she finds herself closing her eyes as she gently rests her own cheek against Brittany's head. She breathes in deeply, calm settling inside her as the faint smell of grass meets her senses. Even after all they've endured it seems that one facet of Brittany's scent will always linger. She just wishes to be lost in it, to forget where they currently rest and simply pull Brittany into her arms and breathe.

"Not _one_ damned spot in _thirteen_ wagons," Quinn seethes as she comes to stand before them. Santana doesn't move but manages to crack one eye open. Quinn and her _impeccable_ timing, she bemoans. "And have you any idea how many men they've laid to rest in the last one? Take a guess. It's unbelievable."

"I don't kn—" Santana begins to say only for Quinn to continue ranting on.

" _Sixteen_! Sixteen men in a wagon built for at most seven!" she exclaims in a hushed irate whisper. She's not once looked down toward Santana nor Brittany as she carries on, her sole focus, to Santana anyway, seems upon glaring more wagons into existence by sheer force of will. "And do you know when Major Eckhart put in the order for more wagons?" Santana keeps quiet for she knows it's useless to even suggest a vowel. "August! He put in an order for them in _August_! That was _ages_ _ago_ and yet we've not seen one! Not a damned one, Santana! Why are you not outraged?" she demands when she finally spares a glance down toward the woman and finds Santana staring up at her with utmost disinterest.

Santana doesn't move, too comfortable against Brittany and so very tired. "Just throw us in with the crates," she mutters.

"That's actually… not a terrible idea," Quinn says, thoughtful as she stands to her toes to peak in over the wall of the cart. "At the very least we can fit him inside."

"His name is Bret," Santana supplies lazily.

Quinn grins, holding down a hand for Santana to take. "Help me to move Bret inside?"

Reluctantly Santana accepts Quinn's offer and finds herself being hauled up to her feet. Santana also doesn't realize what she's agreed to until Quinn begins to bend down to retrieve Brittany. With a startling burst of energy Santana snaps forward, yanking Quinn back up to her full height.

Quinn stares at her for a moment, quizzical before announcing, "You know, in order to get him _in_ the cart it _may_ involve us needing to touch him. Just a thought."

"I'll do it," Santana tells her as she dives down to the ground.

"Are you afraid I'll steal him away? Is that it?" Quinn asks, staring down at Santana incredulously. "He's _comatose_."

" _The situation is delicate!_ " Santana hisses up at her as she slides her arms behind Brittany's back and beneath her knees. "Medically speaking," she adds as an afterthought when Quinn purses her lips and gives her that 'you must be mad' stare once more. When Quinn continues staring Santana lets out a groan. "Just open the damned gate."

Quinn still doesn't believe Santana's reasoning but if the woman thinks she can lift a full grown man from the ground all by her lonesome then she doesn't intend to stop her. If anything she may even garner a few amused minutes watching Santana struggle before the proud woman, inevitably, consents her defeat and begs for assistance. So it is much to Quinn's utter surprise that Santana does manage, though quite shakily, to lift Bret into her arms and stand upright. Santana looks about ready to collapse and so Quinn quickly scrambles to push aside crates in the cart and make enough space for Bret to lie. It won't be a comfortable ride, but given the alternative inside the ambulance wagons it will do quite well.

Santana braces her back against the cart side, wondering how easily Noah makes carrying Brittany seem when all her arms wish to do is give out and let Brittany fall to the ground. She keeps her knees bent, breathing as even as she's able to with her muscles crying out in pain and her teeth feeling as if they will shatter from the force of her bite. Brittany remains slack in her hold and it takes all in Santana's power not to crumble to the ground with her still held in her arms.

"Okay!" Quinn says once she's finished. Santana takes a deep breath and pushes off the cart side, quickly moving into place beside Quinn to slide Brittany into the back of the cart. Quinn helps to swing Brittany's legs inside as Santana collapses against the back edge and Brittany's body rolls into the small space Quinn was able to arrange.

Quinn picks Santana, lightheaded now after such exertion, back up to her feet. Brittany swims in her vision, though even in the disorientation Santana can still see just how cramped the space is that Quinn had made. It's barely big enough for a child, she thinks bitterly. Brittany will have to lay curled in a tight ball or sit upright with her legs bent impossibly close to her chest.

And she so does detest the way Quinn has wrapped an arm behind her back in attempt to keep her from swaying on her feet. Santana pushes her away, reaching into the cart to afford Brittany more room.

But she stumbles forward into the edge instead, misjudging the distance. Quinn catches the crate that almost topples down on top of Brittany but is unable to stop Brittany from being jostled into a stack just beside her head.

"Stop making it worse Quinn!" Santana admonishes blindly as she leans into the cart to see how Brittany has fared the hit.

"Of course," Quinn replies dryly, still holding the crate. "Because I didn't just save _your husband_ from further injury."

"Santana…" Brittany breathes out as her forehead knots with pain. Her voice is faint, and Santana stills for it is also so very much not Bret.

Quinn knows the sound of a woman's voice when she hears one. Her eyes dart up to Santana's, her question more than answered by the wide brown-eyed stare she meets.

"You mustn't tell _anyone_ ," Santana pleads, panicked.

There is so much Quinn wishes to ask, yet the absolute terror in Santana's eyes at even the prospect of her very next word causes Quinn to hold back. _So Bret is a woman, what of it?_ she thinks. She's met a few women feigning to be men in Southern camps. Granted it's only after they've suffered an injury and begged of a nurse's hand rather than a doctor's. But they exist; she's not ignorant to them. Mind you she finds them all mad and in desperate need of cerebral evaluation but she's not a judgmental woman. If they wished to fight and die alongside the men then that is their prerogative. Just as she ran to escape her droll life they fight to… well, she's not quite sure why any woman would chose to take up arms over taking up a thermometer but she reckons she can ask Bret that whenever she wakes.

Santana need not look so petrified. "Of course I'll keep this to myself," Quinn tells her smartly. "I'm not an idiot."

"I know, I just—" Santana begins to say.

"What's her name?" Quinn interjects, expression utterly blank.

Santana doesn't think she should reply, but Quinn's eyes are imploring, almost demanding of an answer. She's no reason not to trust her… not after everything she's done for them. "Brittany," Santana tells her softly. "Her name's Brittany."

"Help me move some of these then," Quinn says as she reaches into the cart to push more crates aside. "It may have been good enough for Bret but this'll never do for Brittany."

Quinn keeps working to make a more comfortable space even as Santana stares dumfounded at the side of her face. Quinn only stops when she feels a pair of arms wrap tight about her middle and a cheek press solidly against the top of her back.

" _Thank you_ ," is whispered pitifully small into the back of her shoulder.

Quinn allows Santana to hug her, reveling for just a second in what it feels like to be truly appreciated. It's a novelty, of that she is sure, to be so… loved upon. Yet it's not reciprocated, not one sentiment of it. Santana is only grateful for she's agreed to keep her mouth shut. This is not in friendship, or kinship or any emotion other than utter relief. Quinn feels uncomfortable in the hold, the touch unwanted despite the slight, _miniscule_ , way it makes her feel needed. She shakes Santana off, smirking as she reminds her, "Now you _truly_ owe me an education."

Stanley arrives shortly thereafter with Noah in tow. He's a length of rope slung over his shoulder, the other end already tied about Noah's wrists. Noah gives Santana a dejected look as he holds up his bonds and she understands instantly. She's to be bound too. No sooner does the thought pass than Stanley takes her by the hands and fits a matching knot to Santana's wrists. Quinn throws her a sympathetic look as she closes up the cart gate.

_At least Brittany is safe, right?_ is what her expression seems to convey as she steps back to allow Stanley to tie the rope off on the carts back posts. Santana knows he can see Brittany inside, but he says nothing in way of the arrangement as he continues to secure their bonds.

"Hope you both didn't work too hard today," he says as he gives a hard tug on the slack in the rope. The cart jostles some from the heave, Santana momentarily fearing more crates will tumble down upon Brittany. Even Stanley pauses, eyes rooted to the crates they can see stacked over the back gate. He gives Santana a grin when not a single crate slides out of place. "Good job, lass," he comments, thumping Santana solidly on the back. "Now here's hopin' you're not too beat to walk all day."

* * *

The journey is to take two days and yet by midday Santana feels as though she's been walking for four. Quinn walks ahead, charged with assisting those in ambulance five and unable to be by Santana's side as she promised. Santana doesn't fault her though, she knows Quinn will find them once they've stopped for the night. _If I even make it till then_ , Santana thinks, weary. Through the slats in the back gate she can see Brittany resting inside the cart, squeezed in the little space she and Quinn were able to make for her. The canopy shade of the canvas roof stretched across the cart top protects her from the glaring light of the high sun, keeping her fair skin safe from needless burns. Already Santana can feel the tips of her own ears beginning to heat, the cool wind doing little to abate the damage being wrought from above. She wishes she'd never allowed Quinn to fix the braid into her hair. Granted it doesn't whip across her face any longer but given the alternative she thinks she'd rather a mouthful of hair than sore ears.

She'll have to sleep on her back for a while until they heal.

It is ever so uncomfortable a position to hold through the night.

But her concerns seem petty, so very _asinine_ upon sight of the men and women working out in the fields alongside the road. They stop in their labor to watch the caravan pass, dark faces shrouded beneath the wide brims of their straw hats. It's no warmer here than it was a mere few miles back, the same frigid winds prevalent in their course across the land. And yet those scattered throughout the fields don the same unfit attire as she, blouses and shirts layered as thickly as possible against the chill, tattered scarves wrapped about the necks of those fortunate enough to have found the extra bit of fabric. Children stand close beside their mothers, gripping tight to dirtied skirts, faces awed by the sight of the Southern army marching past their masters' lands. No one waves, not one sound made as the caravan slowly makes it way down the road.

Santana catches the eye of one worker, a heavier-set woman whose once-hardened glare softens as her eyes catch upon the rope bound around Santana's wrists. The young woman gives her a sympathetic look as their gazes meet. Santana doesn't even wish to think upon how the woman must have lost one of her ears. Her own don't seem so pained in comparison. She doesn't even bother to think upon them again.

It's so different in the South; quieter and vaster than the lands she's grown accustomed to in the North. Whereas hills once dotted the landscape, now plains stretch out far beyond the horizon. She feels they're miles from the nearest town and leagues from the nearest bustling city. Does the South even have places like Cincinnati? She imagines not. Industry is not a Southern institution, of what she's heard and read of the South it seems to only consist of farms. Farms and mills.

She wishes Brittany were awake… she wonders if this is what Lima must look like, if that barn out there in the field is like hers at home. Do cows graze in pastures the same way in the North? Is the grass similar? Are her cows even they same color?

She spends so long simply imagining it all she fails to notice that Brittany has woken until she looks back in through the slates in the gate to find a pair of warm blue eyes watching her tiredly. Brittany doesn't know where she is, or why she's locked up like a hen on it's way to a prize ceremony. But the way Santana smiles at her, as if she shouldn't worry about anything ever again makes her feel safe. She reaches up, letting her fingers slip through the small gap in the wooden gate. Santana steps forward, sliding her own to fit between Brittany's.

"I don't want to sleep no more," Brittany whispers, feeling fatigue pulling her away.

"You need to," Santana tells her quietly, her voice carrying strongly over the sounds of cart rolling loudly over the bumpy dirt road. The crates in the cart squeak as they scrape against each other, wood knocking noisily against wood. All Brittany hears is Santana's voice. "I'm right here."

"I don't want no…" Brittany trails off as her eyes fall close and she settles back against the cart floor. "…no… ribbon…"

Her hand grows slack and slips back through the gap. Santana grips to the gate, resting her forehead against the panel as she walks behind the cart and bites back her tears.

"Keep faith, Santana," Noah tells her.

And for once, she takes heed of his hope.

* * *

The company camps along the roadside; bedrolls laid out beneath the stars whilst cumbersome tents remain strapped to haversacks. The men are high in spirit as they work to start fires in hopes of warding off the evening chill. Not one complains of the meager ration they are fed for thoughts are upon the homelands they return toward. Even Stanley's usually sour demeanor has softened as he loosens the rope tied about Santana's wrists. He hums a tune, one as unfamiliar to her ears as the slight smile he wears beneath his untamed mustache. And when his eyes meet hers she swears a new man must stand before her. Sympathy is not a quality becoming upon a bastard.

She squints up at him, eyes narrowed with distrust.

Stanley turns her hands over gently, undoing the last of the bonds. "Quinn'll tend to the burns," he tells her as the rope slips down from her raw wrists.

Santana is quick to yank her hands from his grip once free, unwilling to let even a second more of unnecessary contact pass. She rubs the damaged skin, twisting her wrist in hopes of subduing the soreness that's settled into the delicate bones. As she takes a step away from Stanley she ensures the look she throws up to him conveys her utmost contempt. But he believes it not, thinking Santana quite pathetic looking with the way she stands hunched hugging her arm to her chest as if every bone in her arm has shattered and he is solely to blame.

"You're not _dyin'_ , you know," he says as he bends to collect the rope from the ground. "Ain't no one ever died from a bit of rope burn."

"It's the _principle_ of the matter," Santana snarls. "I _chose_ to come South. Even if I wanted to run, where would I go?"

Stanley tosses the rope into the rear of the cart and looks back down at Santana from over his shoulder. Just behind where she stands in such defiance he can spot her two friends. The blonde one is still asleep, curled on a blanket Quinn was able to scrounge for the three to use during the night to come. The other, Noah he recalls, sits tending to the small fire a passing Southern soldier was kind enough to kindle for him. It's funny, he thinks, how fiercely protective she is of them and yet, "Don't you think that statement of yours needs some amending?" he asks, quirking a brow as he pointedly keeps his gaze rooted over her shoulder.

Santana's eyes darken. " _I'd never leave them_ ," she tells him viciously.

Stanley merely gives her an amused smile as he closes the back gate of the cart into place. It latches shut with a final shove, and he leans against it, nonchalant, a position he knows irritates Santana beyond measure. "If you say so, lass," he tells her, nodding back down to her friends. "You best help your friend there with keeping that fire strong. God knows you've enough in you right now to keep damn well ten of 'em burning through the night."

"I hope you sleep unsoundly tonight," Santana quips, her expression growing devious. "So much so that whilst in a fit of nightmarish thrashing, which as we know probably features Quinn in some perverse nature of sorts, you just so happen to roll into a nearby fire and that _hideous_ creature growing on your top lip disappears in a blazing cloud of outdated smoke."

Stanley resists the urge to bring a hand to his moustache but the slight twitch of his fingers Santana more than notices.

She smirks up at him. "Pleasant dreams, _man-pup_."

Before she can turn to walk away he grabs her roughly by the arm. She doesn't turn to face him, merely holds her posture strong as he leans down to whisper in her ear. "You best learn to hold your tongue," he warns her. "The boys at the outpost won't be so _kind_." He can't see her expression, but can feel it in the way her shoulders tense and the muscles in her upper arm contract. He lets go, smiling at her reaction and gives her back a gentle push toward where Noah now watches them both closely. "Pleasant dreams, _Santana_ ," he calls out to her as she numbly sets herself down beside Brittany.

She says nothing in return, her back still turned to him as she reaches out to brush the hair from the blonde one's forehead. With a nod down toward Noah, Stanley walks off along the caravan to join his friends. He'll fill his belly with much needed beer; perhaps even follow along during a song two. He won't spend another minute thinking upon Santana, nor spare a glance to ensure her and the other two still remain beside the cart.

They've nowhere to run.

And even with his warning he knows she'll still be by that cart come dawn.

She won't forsake her broken husband.

Santana keeps scowling at Stanley's back until he disappears into a small group of men amassed by one of the larger fires beside the road.

"What'd he say to you?" Noah has been asking her repeatedly since she's sat down.

After what feels the hundredth time she turns to him, letting out an exasperated breath. " _Puckerman_ ," she snaps, shoving him aside as he tries to move closer. "It's nothing, okay? Complete horse shit."

"It's not nothing," Noah tells her. "He _completely_ rattled you."

"I'm fine aren't I?" she says, turning away as she scoots up to Brittany's side. "Let me sleep."

"You should be nicer to him," Brittany mumbles as Santana wraps an arm across her waist. "He's my friend…"

"He's being an _ass_ ," Santana replies, mindful to allow her voice to carry to his ears.

"I'm being a good _friend_ ," he retorts.

_He's a point_ , Brittany's gaze speaks and Santana lets out a groan as she buries her face in the crook of Brittany's neck. There's so much she need worry about and the added grief of Noah's insolence helps none. The tension melts from her body as Brittany slips an arm behind her back. Her touch is light, unsteady as she rubs a slow pattern across Santana's shoulder. It's so unlike the sure hand Brittany once touched her with and Santana knows this is the most she's able given her current condition. That she's even trying at all with this infection is incredible enough. Santana presses a warm kiss low to Brittany's neck, reveling in the soft hum Brittany lets out in response.

Santana brushes another a little higher, knowing Brittany is more alert if the way her fingers clutch to the back of her dress is any indication. And as much as Brittany enjoys the attention she is unable to focus, too many questions rising to the forefront of her mind. She's still no idea where they are, where they are even going let alone why she was in that cage today. _Did that even happen?_ And still no Michael or Burt… no news…

Her arm hurts and itches something fierce but she pushes the discomfort aside. There is one question she's also been meaning to ask and as Santana's lips are about to meet her own she slips her hand to Santana's collarbone, halting her from lowering further.

"Why has no one come for us?" Brittany asks quietly. She looks up to brown eyes, imploring them for an answer. "Or at the very least for you?"

Santana pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. "Britt…"

"She could have left," Noah grumbles, poking at the small fire with the end of a charred stick. "They called for her back in Hartsville."

Santana sends a silencing glare his way.

"San, why didn't you—" Brittany begins to speak, brow furrowing with confusion until the sole reason dawns on her. Her face falls, eyes quick to collect with tears. "You stayed for me…"

"Brittany, you know I—"

Brittany hugs her fiercely, surprising even Santana with the spur of strength. "That wasn't very smart, Santana," Brittany tells her, voice wavering with unbridled emotion. She buries her face into the side of Santana's neck, crying freely as she tells her, " _I love you so much_."

Santana holds her tight, unwilling to let go. "I love you too."

Brittany pulls her into a kiss, hurried in its urgency. It's a need Santana more than meets, not caring for once who may be witnessing this exchange. The last of Brittany's strength wanes as quickly as it appeared, her arms the first to grow weak in her hold around Santana's back. Her lips slip over Santana's top, tongue tasting just a hint of tears. She's unsure if they're hers but her mind is growing hazy, eyelids heavy as she pulls back just a fraction to meet Santana's gaze.

Brittany can't remember the last time Santana's looked at her with such intensity. _Too long_... she thinks as her mind grows dizzy for reasons unrelated to the infection still laden in her blood.

Santana can see Brittany fighting to remain awake, but knows rest is what she needs most. She helps Brittany to settle as comfortably along the ground as she can, pressing soft kisses to her face as Brittany begins to succumb to fatigue. It's not long before Brittany falls asleep and Santana sits up beside her, running her hands slowly through short hair in a pattern she's fast grown accustomed to. Noah's back is turned to them from where he sits at the foot of the blanket. He must have heard everything yet if he did he doesn't let on.

She feels a pang of guilt for having treated him so poorly. _Brittany was right…_

"Noah?"

He turns his head, looking back to her from over his shoulder.

" _Sorry,_ " Santana mouths, the apology more evident in her eyes than her whispered word. Noah nods, giving her a small smile. He knows there's something she's still keeping from him but for now he will let it pass. Brittany is faring better, and all is as well as can be given their situation. He counts his blessings in that regard.

Quinn comes round shortly after, in her hand a simple journal and pen. Noah counts more than just his blessings when she arrives. He's surprised, surely, by this beautiful new arrival and so _very_ grateful. But it also stirs something wrong in his gut, his defenses rising as she sits down beside Santana without a word, opening her book to a blank page and then stares expectantly up at her.

Santana is completely thrown by her sheer fortitude.

Noah decides she must be harmless and can't blame Santana for being so unresponsive. Pretty girls did tend to do that to him on occasion as well.

He clears his throat, extending his hand out as he musters as charming a smile to his face as he's able given his current state of exhaustion. "Hi," he greets her, grin widening. "I'm Noah."

Quinn looks to him, then to his chest, and lastly to his proffered hand. "I'm here to _learn_ ," she tells him.

"Me too," he easily supplies. "Starting with your name."

"Quinn, Noah," Santana says, motioning toward Noah with an idle flick of her wrist. She winces as the skin pulls and rubs at the raw marks to ease the tension.

"Stanley mentioned you might have been burned," Quinn says as she reaches into her pocket to withdraw a small bottle of what Santana quickly recognizes as a beeswax ointment. "This should help some."

Santana pushes the bottle back with a shake of her head when Quinn tries to hand it to her. "First lesson, beeswax doesn't allow skin to breathe."

Quinn quirks a brow, not understanding. Beeswax has healing properties; the surgeons were always slathering it over wounds to stop everything from bleeding to infection. "But it's—"

"Aloe allows skin to breathe," Santana continues, unwilling to let Quinn make a fool of herself aloud. "A burn needs to breathe."

"So then what is beeswax for?" Quinn asks. "We use it for _everything_."

"Wait, wait!" Noah exclaims after watching the exchange. "How is it you two know each other?"

"Quinn's the one who's been getting us supplies," Santana answers.

"And in exchange Santana is to teach me medicine," Quinn tells him, offhand. She turns back to Santana. "So beeswax… not good for measles?"

Santana thinks she may regret ever agreeing to teach Quinn but when Brittany's hand brushes against her side she knows she can't.

She'll stay up all night teaching her if she must.

It's not a choice.


	20. Shelter

Brittany jostles awake after the cart hits a particularly nasty divot in the road. Her hand immediately slides to relive the tenderness now swelling on the side of her head but the pain inexplicably passes after a few seconds. She doesn't have to think too hard upon why it fades so quickly. This has to be at _least_ the fifth time today she's been woken in such an abrupt manner.

Yet the second in which she's felt nothing in way of discomfort.

Even though she swears the feel and scrape of the cart's wood bed beneath her palms is real, she knows she's not truly conscious. The sky is too blue; smells far too crisp with the promise of a spring still so far off. Everything is too perfect. Even the wound on her arm throbs in too orderly a fashion, the timing of the pulses resonating in her chest feel too numb for this to be her waking world.

She hugs her arm closer to her chest and waits for her mind to wake from this nightmare.

Dreams used to be such a wondrous thing to her.

They were fantastical escapes filled with the bizarre and remarkable. Adventures with Emily through the tallest corn forests in search of frog kings. Riding bareback atop Apple alongside familiar streams, faster and faster till the water and grass became nothing save for beautifully smeared swatches of color. And lest she not forget her current favorite, trysts with Santana in secluded tents beneath purple skies.

She misses the simplicity and joy of those dreams, their magic especially. She'd always wake with a smile, eyes still closed to hold the last fading images to her minds eye for as long as possible. It's such a far cry from the dreams she's been plagued with these past few days. They've become indistinguishable from her waking life.

She's having trouble deciphering what is real and what she's imagined. There are instances when she knows she's entered into the fantastical. The telltale appearance of unicorns tied to cart wagons and talking ducks administering her new bandage wrappings tend to hint wildly at that. It's the dreams that are so lucid she can't distinguish them from reality that frighten her. How many times has she woken to new bandages only to find them still bloodied not a few hours later? How many conversations with Santana have passed? Did they truly argue over whom should be wearing the coat? Did Santana sing for her as she requested?

Of everything that's been said between them… what was even real?

Brittany can't remember and her head spikes terribly with pain whenever she tries to think harder upon the matter. Her blood cannot be rid of this infection soon enough, she thinks, curling further into herself in the back of the cart. She watches as Santana struggles to remain upright, nearly sleepwalking as she trudges along behind the cart. Her arms are stretched far ahead of her, skin rubbed red and raw from the rope bound around her wrists. The cart surges forward over another dip and Santana is yanked closer toward the back gate by the force.

A wince pulls across her tired face as she stumbles to correct her stride.

Brittany's heart twists, knowing she can offer nothing in way of help.

She shifts her focus past Santana, unwilling to watch her suffer so. The sky is orange; whether it is dawn or dusk Brittany cannot tell. _Wasn't it just blue?_ she ponders, worried.

Another jostle of the cart sends her head smacking back against a crate.

When she opens her eyes the once-orange sky is now the deepest of blues. And Santana… she walks just as slowly as before, just as pained.

Brittany hates not knowing which is real.

She feels as if she prefers her nightmares to this new plight. And oh, how she's had them.

There are visions that haunt her, rousing her from sleep in the dead of night with a pounding heart. They aren't the fanciful fears of her subconscious come to life, not these dreams. She's lived them, _relives_ them night after night. Feels the heat of the Northern camp flames rising so high into the sky they seem to lick at the stars. Wants to wretch at the horrifying smell of burning horsehide. Feels her heart stop at the sound of Santana's scream…

She always wakes from those with a start, reaching for where she hopes Santana rests close by. And poor Santana, so exhausted from the days travel, never stirs as Brittany tries to calm her rapidly beating heart. She recalls only waking once to find Santana not curled against her side.

But she also thinks it must be imagined. Santana was sitting beside a small fire which Noah was tending to. He was distracted though; taking glances every so often to the blonde woman by Santana's side. Brittany felt as if she'd lived this before, swore she could feel the worn leather of the journal in the blonde's hands as if it were in her own. This _was_ her. It _must_ have been. Why else was she unable to see the blonde's face? Wasn't that the pinnacle rule of such a voyeuristic experience? She's had enough dreams where she's been Lord Tubbington to know this to be true.

Perhaps it was a time that could have been…

After all, lessons beside a fire with Santana were some of her favorite memories.

She only remembers but a vague snippet of that dream; another must have come to replace it. But it's the one she remembers most vividly as she lies uncomfortably in the back of the cart and watches as Noah encourages Santana to hold strong.

Brittany is so very tired of sleeping.

And so very tired of not being strong enough. She is always there for Santana, _always_ , and not being able to even walk by Santana's side is hurting her far worse than any infection ever could.

_I will get better_ , she wills herself. There's no choice in the matter. She made a promise once to keep Santana safe from harm and she's intent on seeing that pledge through.

No matter what.

She must fall asleep again for the next time she wakes it's much, much later in the day. The cart has stopped and Santana is desperately whispering something against the side of her face. She can't understand a word though, not when Santana is speaking to her in such hurried Spanish. Disappointment doesn't even begin to describe how pitiful she feels for succumbing to the grips of the infection once again. How can she ever be well enough to keep Santana safe when she herself can't even remain awake, let alone decipher if she's truly conscious or not? Warm lips press against a spot just below her ear and Brittany can feel them trembling, her own parting in attempt to express concern.

But her throat is dry, tongue heavy where is rests against the top of her mouth. She tries reaching for Santana and her fingers graze against the blanket hanging loosely from Santana's shoulders.

"I'm right here," she can hear Santana whisper as a sure hand twines with her own. Trying to squeeze back is futile and Brittany's stomach plummets, knowing she can no more lift a finger than she can even manage to open her eyes. She forces them to open though, her vision far too cloudy to make out anything aside from Santana's close presence. But the relief she can feel in Santana's grip is enough to swell her with pride.

She remains awake long enough to feel Noah pick her up from inside the cart, giving him a wobbly smile as she leans her head against his shoulder. He'll keep Santana safe…

His steps begin to lull her to sleep, and she's not sure if she's entered her dreams or not. But she must, she thinks, for unfinished walls does not a prison camp make.

* * *

Remembering Quinn's warning, Santana stays close to Noah's side as they near the meadow containing the mill camp. Although, she finds it hard to think upon any concerns for her wellbeing when the camp they are being led to can hardly be called a camp at all. There's no barrier in place to keep the captives from escaping. The start of a wall was obviously abandoned long ago if the grass growing around the log piles is any indication. It spans a few dozen yards before tapering off suddenly once it reaches the stream. On either side a guard is posted and by the looks of it each wearied, miserable and cold.

The ones to her back guiding them onward give her an impatient prod when her pace slows. She forces her steps to hasten and looks ahead into what will be her new _home_ for the foreseeable future.

The meadow is scarce of trees; scarce of _life_ in general. The grass has long since died, the remains of small shrubs now bare and hacked down for firewood and tinder. There are no tents, just scatterings of shanties and shaded coverings made of sticks and boughs of dead pine leaves. Men lay beneath, wrapped tightly in their coats, some fortunate enough to have been given blankets. Not one of the men is in good health, nor is there an inkling of attention shown toward providing them even the most rudimentary care.

She must look away, incensed by the very sight of such neglect.

Settled a ways inside the meadow stands the burned ruins of an old millhouse. The roof has long since collapsed, just a few stacks of bricks and charred beams keep what remains of the walls upright. A blacked pile of wood discarded in the stream is all that survives of the once large wheel. The only solid structure still intact is the stone fireplace, in use now, smoke pouring from it's lip.

It's not at all the picture she imagined of the camp and she's not sure if what she dreaded is worse than what she is seeing now.

Neither can she make sense of the multitude of hitching posts lined in a large circle around the span of the encampment. It's an odd way to form a border, let alone a deterrent from escape. Anyone with working legs could easily hop over or slide themselves beneath. It must be a ruse, she thinks, watching as a few Southern soldiers patrol the perimeter. She can't help thinking back to Quinn's word.

Perhaps they are just horses waiting to be tied and shot.

It's at least a hundred yards or more until the tree line thickens from where the border of the camp rests. Running is not an option, not with someone as weak as Brittany and Southern soldiers as itching for action as those patrolling the boundary. They'll have to wait for the caravan come January.

_If one is even to come_ , Santana amends resentfully.

The soldiers at her back give a final shove to her shoulder as they push her and Noah through a small gap between two hitching posts. She turns instantly, unsurprised to find them retreating back toward the caravan. All save for Stanley, of course, who looks down into the camp with unveiled scrutiny.

"Why haven't you run off like your _brothers_?" Santana sneers up at him.

"Quinn asked me to ensure you made it safely," he replies evenly, still not looking down upon her. His gaze narrows as he focuses upon something just over Santana's shoulder. When she turns to follow his line of sight she finds a few Southern guards leaning against the wall of the old mill. Even from a distance she can see the sunken skin of their cheeks and the glaze of malnourishment coating their eyes. If this is the physical state of the soldiers, she fears what it will mean for their own welfare. Despite their hardship the two soldiers stare at Stanley with utter scorn. Disdain Santana has a feeling is born of jealously. Stanley's next words have her attention back upon him. "Do not leave your friend's side, you hear me?"

The warning is strange passing from his lips, but the meaning is well inferred. His eyes meet hers for a brief moment, still as jaded and hard as ever. They soften ever so slightly as he gives her a curt nod. It is the most she thinks she'll ever receive from him in ways of concern. So it is much to her surprise when he slips a folded note into her hand. She need not ask, knowing the letter is from Quinn. With another nod to Noah Stanley makes his way back toward the road where the caravan waits.

Noah is staring down at her hand, brow knotted in puzzlement as she turns to face him. She's amazed he seems not at all strained by Brittany's weight but can tell soon he will need to set her down. They've been walking all day to reach this hellmouth; both are exhausted, cold and hungry.

"What do you reckon it says?" Noah asks her quietly as he adjusts Brittany in his arms.

Santana unfolds the letter, anxious to find Quinn's neat script filling the page. But instead there is only one hurried line. "If ever you should need help, ask after me," Santana reads aloud.

The small spark of hope seems to wane in Noah's eyes. Even he expected more.

There will be no asking after Quinn, not in a place like this where those in far more need of help are being disregarded.

Santana doesn't know whether to laugh or begin crying at such a circumstance. _How has it come to this?_ She wonders bitterly, scanning the camp before them. How has she managed to lead them to such a place of no return?

She can't even look at Brittany as she steps past Noah and further into the prison.

Quinn's note is crumbled tightly in her fist. She takes another step and without remorse it's allowed to fall to the barren ground.

"Santana?" Noah ventures, calling for her softly, evidently troubled.

She doesn't turn though. The sky is growing darker and they will need somewhere to sleep protected from whatever weather may descend upon this hell. She's never had to build anything in her life.

She doesn't know where to begin… what to do.

"We should…?" Her usual smooth tone is shaken, a vulnerable quality layered amidst the front of nerve.

Brittany would take Santana's hand about now, Noah knows. She'd tell her that everything will be all right…

Santana never does quite believe him when he tells her the same.

He'll have to show her otherwise.

"We should find somewhere to sleep," he says as he comes to stand beside her. Santana looks up at him, nodding her consent with frightened eyes. He gives her a small smile. "Follow me."

It doesn't take him long to find a suitable shelter. And right beside the stream to boot. Secluded a ways from the millhouse a small leaning structure sits prized for the taking. Some Northern men must have erected it a while back, it consists of nothing more than a couple armfuls of old lumber from the mill propped against an equally old fence railing. A few tattered old blankets tied to the posts keep the chill from entering.

There's a coughing sound from within.

And it is, unfortunately, occupied.

It also doesn't take Noah long to convince the two sick men inside to leave given the show of fists he displays along with a quick, yet Santana notes, gentle threat. Brittany would protest if she were conscious and Santana is thankful that she isn't awake to witness this. The men put up no resistance, one gladly willing to relinquish the shelter once his eyes land upon Santana. Even in times of suffering it seems chivalry is not completely lost. She wishes she could muster the pity to feel remorse at what amounts to nothing less than robbing a man of his home, but she can't. She's no strength left to do anything aside from lie herself down beside Brittany in the cramped space.

Noah pokes his head down inside the shelter, watching for a moment as Santana carefully brushes the hair back from over Brittany's forehead. He clears his throat, smiling ever so slightly at the way Santana glances toward him before focusing back upon Brittany. He can still remember the way she would spring back as if burnt being caught in such a position with his friend. If anything he's glad for her conviction now. When Brittany wakes, she'll be in need of that strength.

"I'll see about getting us a fire started," he tells Santana finally and waits for the vague nods she gives him. He won't wander too far. He wants to always keep them within his sight. There's a small inkling of worry in his gut at the ease to which she's consented to being left alone though. Therefore he must venture softly, "Will you be all right here?"

"As right as can be," is her response, followed by an even more hollow, "I'm sure wherever you go you'll be able to hear my scream."

He swallows down the mass of unease now lodged in his throat. Her words, loathsome as they are, ring true. "I'll be real quick, okay?"

She doesn't answer back though, not whilst pulling Brittany close and burying her face against the thick coat. Santana doesn't move until she can hear Noah's steps fading down the stream. Even then she remains tucked into Brittany's side, nose still pressed against her surgeon's coat. It smells of the cedar wood used in the crates; the scent is soothing despite the annoyance the boxes once brought her. Even more soothing is the way she can feel Brittany's soft breath play against the top of her ear.

She can almost forget where they are when she wraps herself so fully in Brittany's arms.

"This is smaller than my tent," Brittany comments, her tone quieted and rough from nonuse.

Santana's eyes snap open as she pulls back, nearly smacking the back of her head against the slope of the wood beams. She catches herself before she's able, one hand still clutched tightly to the coat lapels on Brittany's chest. Her eyes are quick to dart between Brittany's, searching for the telltale signs of disorientation. But blue eyes are steadily locked upon her own, almost wistful in their gaze.

"You're not really you…" Brittany whispers, smiling sadly.

Santana ignores the way her chest constricts at such an admission. Brittany hasn't been quite herself in these moments but she selfishly still clings to them anyway. Sometimes Brittany's lucid, perfectly capable of conversation for a few fleeting moments before delusions set in and her body forces her asleep before more damage can be wrought. This seems to be one of those times, just like the others where Brittany wakes swearing she's still dreaming. It hurts knowing there is nothing she can do to keep Brittany's imagination from wrecking havoc upon her dreams. She doesn't know which is worse, the infection or the hallucinations Brittany suffers because of it.

Santana tucks her arm beneath her head and reaches forward with her other, tracing a soft line over Brittany's brow. The touch smoothens the knotted skin of Brittany's forehead and Santana feels she's won a small victory against Brittany's turmoil. "Are you hungry?" she asks, knowing Brittany must be starving.

"I ate already…" Brittany answers, before her brow knots once more and she adds quietly, "I think."

Santana shakes her head slowly, worried. "You haven't eaten since this morning, Britt."

"I had bread," Brittany asserts. Santana must know that, she was the one who handed it to her… and there, just on the tip of her tongue, she can still taste the wheat.

"No," Santana shifts closer until their foreheads press against the others. "No, you had cornmeal."

"I don't remember…" Brittany whispers, anxious. Her eyes grow watery, blue so very piercing. "I can't remember what's… w-what's _real_ , San," she whimpers.

Santana is quick to throw her arm over Brittany's side and pull her close. She can feel the hot tears in Brittany's eyes slick against her neck, the sniffle that shortly follows only causing her hold upon Brittany to tighten. "You'll get better, _I promise_ ," she tells her earnestly. "And before you know it we'll be exchanged and home soon after."

"Tell me… when I wake," Brittany pleads, sleep pulling her away.

Santana closes her eyes to stop herself from crying as well. "You are awake."

* * *

Sleep came very little to Santana that night, even with the warmth of the fire Noah was able to light for them. He slept soundly just outside the small shelter, wrapped in their sole blanket. Brittany fidgeted in her sleep within, the smallest of cries forced from her lips whenever a rather violent dream struck her. Santana held her close throughout, knowing come morn she would need to seek Quinn out. The toxins in Brittany's blood haven't quelled, not in the least. She's in need of medicine or at the very least a muscle relaxer.

Santana's only solace in terms of Brittany's care came from unwrapping the bandages to find the wound healing well. It is now only a matter of Brittany fighting what remains of the vile infection.

Yet the fever she has woken with this morn bodes poorly for a swift recovery.

She needs Quinn's help, desperately.

"Watch her for me, will you Noah?" Santana asks as she sets aside her empty tin cup of cornmeal. It consisted of but a few bites, leaving her hungry still. She can already see Noah poking the shallows of the stream in hopes of stirring awake whatever may be resting in the muck. She doubts there's a fish in there that's large enough to even amount to a snack for a squirrel.

Noah looks up at her, tossing his stick down into their dying fire. A few sparks swirl into the air, but their fury wanes just as quickly as his frustration. "You can't head out there alone," he says, rising to his feet.

"I just need to find someone willing to—"

"Oh, they'll be _willing_ ," he insists, blocking her against the shelter entrance. "You remember what Stanley said. You shouldn't leave my side."

"And we can't leave her here _alone_ ," Santana tells him, trying to push past him. "I'll be fine Noah, trust me."

"Then I'll go," he says, insistent. "What do you need? I'll get it for you. Bandages? Medicine? Blankets?"

"I need Quinn."

"Even better!" He grins. "I'll see if I can get word to her. Don't move from here," he tells her, guiding her back down to the ground. "Stay low and quiet, all right?"

"Noah, she needs…" Santana begins to say but he's already taking off down the stream in search of a Southern guard.

* * *

He returns minutes later and the irritation upon his face is all she needs to know his endeavor was a failure. Noah was never quite so good with words, let alone able to coerce anyone into doing even the simplest of tasks for him. Perhaps a naïve young woman or two but certainly not the hardened soldiers charged with keeping order in the camp. As he plops down to the ground on his back beside her, defeated, she picks Brittany's head up gently from where it rests in her lap.

"Santana?" he asks, confused when she places Brittany's head down on his stomach. She hands him one of the cornmeal tins now filled with chilled stream water.

"I've been dipping the blanket in it and then laying the corner over her forehead," she explains as she forces the blanket into his hands. "She's a fever, so make sure not to let the blanket set on her head too long."

"Why are you giving this all to me?" he asks, before realization dawns on him as she stands to her feet. He sits up, careful not to disturb Brittany. "The soldiers don't care none for us!"

"I'll make them think otherwise."

"Santana!"

She doesn't turn back once she takes the first step away, nor as she hears Noah's desperate calls echo down the stream. She knows he won't chase after her. Not if it means leaving Brittany alone.

It's easy enough to follow the line of hitching posts back toward where they entered the previous night. The passing Southern guards patrolling the outlaying fields leer at her as she makes her way around. She manages to ignore those she knows would prove useless in their word, trying instead to spot a Stanley amongst their lot. For once she wishes he were around, he would surely have gone to fetch Quinn for her.

"I wouldn't get too close if I were you, Miss."

Santana turns at the voice, confused for a moment when she finds no one standing to her back. That is until movement catches her eye near the ground and she's surprised for an entirely different reason. A spectacled man is sprawled on the ground, holding himself upright by slender yet sturdy arms. She's no idea why he greets her from such a position, though many answers begin to spring to her mind as he moves forward upon his hands, dragging his prone legs behind him.

He gives her a solemn look, nodding for her to back away from the hitching post. "It's best you not mess with the deadline unless you want a bullet to your head."

Santana springs away from the fence line, understanding now the hungry look upon the surlier of Southern guards faces. When was the last time any of them ever used their guns?

"I'm Artie Abrams," the man introduces kindly as he raises a hand. "Ohio 108th."

Santana's eyes are riveted to his motionless legs. "Heine's disease?" she asks, though Artie swears the question is more a command.

His brow furrows behind his spectacles. He's not diseased… at least he's quite sure he's not. "What? I don't—"

"Your paraplegia," Santana interrupts sharply, pointing down to his legs. "Was it caused by Heine's disease?"

"I don't... know what that is."

Santana's gaze locks upon his own, annoyed. "Wasting disease, spinal inflammation, weakness, paralysis." Her eyes narrow as she adds with a snarl, " _contagious_."

Artie brightens. "You're a nurse? We could use one."

" _Do you have Heine's disease_?" Santana demands as she tries to put distance between herself and Artie.

"No, I'm pretty sure I'm healthy as can be," Artie says, still grinning as he gives his chest a solid thump. He motions down toward his legs. "Got a bullet buried somewhere in my back though, it's why I can't walk no more."

Santana instantly relaxes at his words. While she can argue against his declaration of health, as the young man clearly looks as if he hasn't had a decent meal in weeks, she can more than accept a bullet is case for his condition. She hasn't seen an instance so severe herself, but has read mention of such an unfortunate end coming to those unlucky enough to be struck in such a sensitive location. Though Artie seems not at all discouraged by his fate; if anything his smile widens as he holds his hand back out to her.

"Now that you won't be so disinclined to reject my hand," he tells her and she hastily gives his hand a shake. "Pleasure to meet you miss."

"Santana," she offers, trying her best not to stare. It is rather rude after all, even if she is _medically_ curious. "Ohio 106th."

"I gather there must be more of you, seeing as you're fit as a fiddle," he says, trying his best not to stare as well. He can't remember the last time he's seen a woman, let alone one as pretty as the one before him. For once he's grateful for his condition, for at this height he's sure Santana is unable to smell him. And if there is one thing he's quite sure has come from being stuck in this camp without soap, it's that he must reek to the highest of heavens.

"Two more," Santana tells him, deciding Artie harmless enough to share that bit of information with. "But just one ill."

Artie has always prided himself on his sharp intellect and agreeable sociability. The two went hand in hand quite well when it came to settling grievances between his fellow men as well as consorting with the ladies. He, naturally, preferred the latter events in all cases. He always knew just how to perceive a tick of the eye for a lie and the significance of even the faintest purse of woman's lips. It is why he rightfully infers just what that ill soldier must mean to this nurse, especially as she's not been able to meet his eye since. Let alone the glaring fact that she's agreed to come to such an unspeakable place. He doesn't think he'd agree to come here for anyone knowing what he knows of this hell now.

Not even his imagined future wife.

Though being keen Artie also knows it's not his place to mention such relations, especially in the off chance (though he highly doubts it) his suspicions are unfounded. _This one is right and taken_ , he thinks, _the pretty ones always are_.

"Well," he says after a moment, his smile still as gracious as before. "He's clearly in good hands."

Santana ignores the flattery. "Is there a stock here?" she asks. "Anything to help the ill and wounded? And why haven't you been given a chair?"

Artie gives a long sigh. "Most aren't given a meal let alone the luxury of mobility. As for your question I'm afraid we've nothing here you may be in need of, not even a lick of tape. We make do though," he tells her, pointing off toward one of the larger shaded shelters. "I helped get that one made a few months back to—"

" _A few months back_?" Santana sputters out. "You've been here since _then_?"

"Longer, I'm afraid," Artie replies, somber.

Santana shakes her head, disbelieving. "But what of the caravan they promised? We're to be taken for exchange next month!"

"And what would you imagine I'd fetch? Or any of the men here?" He counters, miffed by her outrage. _What had this woman expected_? "We're _purposely_ forgotten."

Santana feels what little hope she clung so desperately to is beginning to rapidly slip from her fingers. "So no one has come to attend to the sick? Not _once_?"

Artie squints up at her, wondering how best to phrase what he wishes to say next. Santana's eyes narrow with impatience and so he candidly her tells her, "Not unless you've something to offer."

Santana bites her lip. _So there is a means to reach Quinn_ , she thinks. "Whom would I speak with about this?"

"I can take you to the man, if you'd like?" Artie offers, though hesitantly Santana notes. "Lieutenant Bryans. He's the quartermaster here. In service terms that means he sees to our supplies, meals and—"

"I know the duties of a quartermaster," Santana snaps. "Spare me the lecture. Where is he?"

"Up in the mill usually, especially on a cold day like today. It's probably best you not go alone, the guards up there have been known to be rather rough and...uncompromising."

"Misogynists?"

"I think the correct term would be bastards."

Santana grins. "Bastards I can more than handle. Lead the way cripple."

Artie amends his earlier thought. The pretty ones _are_ always taken, but they come at a hefty cost.

* * *

"Morning, sir, sir," Artie nods to both guards just outside the mill doorway. They make no sign of acknowledgement, simply remaining in their reclined positions beside the doorway. Santana recognizes them as the same from night previous; their gaunt expressions even more repulsive up close. "I've a friend here who wishes to speak with the good Lieutenant."

One of the guards spits out a bite of his tobacco, uncaring as it lands upon Artie's right leg.

"Excellent aim as usual," Artie notes, trying not to be deterred by the man's disregard. At least it wasn't upon his glasses this time.

"L'tenant!" the other shouts, licking at his discolored teeth as he appraises Santana. "Abrams is 'ere with a fine 'lil lass!"

Santana narrows her eyes at him, irritated, which only serves to grant her a wink from the soldier.

"Unless she's come with a fresh leg of game I'm not in any mood to be grantin' you yanks any favors!" is the gruff holler they are greeted with from inside the mill.

The soldier that spit upon Artie shrugs, reply accepted.

"You've not even heard her—" Artie begins to say only to have that same soldier's foot cut off any further words as he's kicked down to his back.

"Leave him!" Santana growls, pushing the soldier away from Artie. She struggles past the other to gain entrance to the mill but his hold is firm and she's tossed back just as easily. "Just hear my appeal, please!" she shouts into the mill entrance, hoping the Lieutenant is listening regardless. "Where is the company that arrived here yesterday stationed now? There's a nurse I need to speak with!"

"I'd be more 'en glad to fetch your nurse _ma'am_ ," the other soldier tells her as he grabs her roughly by the arm. His breath washes across her face, her stomach wishing to expel her breakfast at the vile stench. "And a fine thing such as you, you must more 'en know the price."

Santana's able to wretch her arm free and shove the laughing soldier aside. But he rounds on her instantly; a snarl smeared across his chapped lips as he backhands her hard across the face. Santana recoils at the hit, her eyes slamming shut against the fresh wave of pain erupting along the side of her healing head. She can hear both soldiers laughing as she wipes the blood from her lip.

Artie yanks her back toward him by the hem of her skirt and tosses a few coins near the soldier's feet.

"There, your price paid!" he says, as he adjusts the glasses back on his nose. "We'll leave now."

"You don't need no nurse!" the soldier continues to shout at their retreating backs through his fit of chuckles. "My cock'll do you right swell!"

Santana wants nothing more than to turn around and burry her boot straight into that man's crotch. " _Bastard_ ," she mutters instead, blood hot in her veins.

"I'm sorry I ever brought you there," Artie tells her once they're a good deals away. "I just thought, perhaps—"

"That I'd be willing?" Santana barks down at him. "Do I look a _whore_ to you?"

"No! I just… I…" Artie stumbles over his words, shamefaced.

"Don't _ever_ assume to help me again."

"I'm sorry!"

"I care not for your _pathetic_ apologies," Santana tells him, needing to unleash her anger upon someone before she returns back to Brittany. Her hands are shaking and she tells herself it is from temper. But the queasy stirrings in her gut are only ever present when she's scared. She will not cry in front of this man. _I will not_ , she wills herself, biting back the sting in her throat. She turns down to Artie, eyes blazing as she hisses, "You _knew_ what he wanted and yet let me speak my request anyway! If I ever so much as see you hobbling my way don't be surprised if my boot finds it's way to your mouth. Lucky for me it won't take much effort to ensure I find my mark."

"I only wanted to _help_ you!"

"And how you've helped indeed!" Santana cries out, knowing her eyes have finally betrayed her and are now filled with tears. "Are you waiting for my thanks? Is that why you stare at me so pitifully? Well to that end, _thank you_ , pygmy saint of diminutive size and wits, for now I will have to sleep with one eye open for the rest of my time here lest I wish to wake to his bastard dick shoved in my face!"

Artie doesn't try to stop her as she takes off down the deadline. When she disappears around a few shelters he wonders more if he'll ever even see her alive again.

* * *

Noah is the first to greet her when she arrives back at the shelter. He's on his feet in an instant, eyes wide as they take in the shiner upon the side of her face. "Santana, what happened?" he asks, reaching for her. "Are you all right, has someone—"

"Not now Puckerman, _please_." She shoves him aside as she falls down to her knees in front of the shelter. Brittany rests inside, half awake as Santana crawls toward her. Lazy arms lift, inviting the bruised woman in. Santana sucks in a ragged breath as she allows herself to fold against Brittany's side and warm arms encircle her close. " _Hi,_ Britt." _God_ , she thinks, even her words sound choked.

"Hi San…" Brittany whispers, placing a soft kiss to her temple. "You sound scared but … you should be all right soon."

_She thinks this isn't real,_ Santana laments as she buries her face deep into the groove of Brittany's neck. "I'm so sorry, Brittany," she breathes out.

"Why?" Brittany asks quietly, confused at the apology. Santana's done no wrong. She turns her head to see Santana better, a pang of guilt striking her gut when her eyes register the fresh bruise spreading across Santana's face. She hates this dream. "Who hurt you? _Santana_?"

"We'll have to stay here a little longer, okay?" Santana says quietly, knowing better than to answer that question. "That's why I'm sorry."

"But someone—"

"Just sleep Britt, all is well," Santana whispers, tucking herself more comfortably in Brittany's hold. "Is your arm bothering you?"

"No, _this_ is," Brittany insists, trying to sit up. There's not much space in the shelter to allow for her height but she hunches, feeling woozy for a moment. It passes as her gaze settles on the swelling skin along Santana's cheek, replaced instead with the familiar heat of ire.

"It's nothing, I promise," Santana says before Brittany can even say a word otherwise. She recognizes that look in the blue eyes, the one that always makes her knees a bit weak knowing Brittany more than means to set right out and find the man responsible. "Please, let it go."

Blue eyes soften at the request as they meet Santana's. "I don't want this to be real."

Santana tugs Brittany back down beside her. "Then it's not."

"How can you be sure?" Brittany asks as Santana settles her head back atop her chest.

"Because nothing hurts," Santana lies.

It makes well enough sense to Brittany, and she accepts it for truth. _What reason has Santana for fibbing anymore?_ she thinks. But she'll hold tight to this dream Santana anyway, not wishing for her to feel so scared anymore. She kisses her again, happy when Santana melts further against her and even goes so far as to tangle a leg between her own. If she closes her eyes Brittany can pretend this is her tent they lie in, perhaps the sky beyond a splash of purple just like in those dreams she relishes so much. The sounds are different though, but she's an idea to make it all better. "Sing for me?"

"I don't think I've a voice left," is the small reply she's met by.

"You do. It's my dream isn't it?" Brittany says through a yawn. "Please…it's been so long."

_Let Brittany live in her delusion_ , Santana tells herself. _Just for a little longer._ She nods against Brittany's chest, and wets her lips before starting the familiar song. " _Tell me the tales that to me were so dear. Long, long ago. Long, long ago_."

Brittany hums in time with the song for as long as she's able. Her voice quiets after a few lines and her breath evens with sleep shortly after. Santana keeps singing anyway, even as tears begin forming in her eyes anew. She doesn't think she's ever been held so safely and yet felt so utterly trapped.

* * *

**December 18th, 1862**

Quinn hasn't heard word from the mill camp in over a week now. There have been murmurs among the nurses, tales of escape and how easily it was for the Northern men to bribe favors of the desperate Southern guard. So why hadn't one of them come with word from Santana? The woman is clever enough to coerce a bribe and Quinn knows she's in need of provisions; she's seen the shipping lists for the mill camp. Not one ounce of morphine let alone one roll of bandages is upon the requests from the quartermaster. She wonders briefly if ever it was listed and yet never supplied. No one in the hospital seems to care there are men suffering not a mile away. Not even with their cabinets plenty filled with stocks readily deployable.

So she amasses a small amount. A roll of bandages one day, a blanket another. Taking a suture thread spool here and some cornmeal there. Just enough for no one to question but no more and certainly no less.

It is easy enough to leave the hospital with her supplies bundled in the blanket and head back down into her company's camp for the evening hours. Avoiding Stanley of course proves difficult but the promise of sharing supper upon her return from a _very_ long bath seems to fluster and appease him enough. She grabs a few extra rolls of bread as she passes the cooks tents, knowing whichever Southern guard at the mill camp she encounters first will bend to her request for safe entrance and departure at the promise of a full belly.

And she's right. She barely even manages to speak her appeal when the guard grabs the bread from her hands and hungrily bites down into it as if this has been his first real meal in weeks. Which, she thinks, is quite possibly true. The mill camp is the last to receive any rations and at that the last to be thought of for future shipments. And with winter now upon the army and companies disbanding, their usual caravans would be few and far in-between.

The guard even willingly imparts to her where he knows Santana and her lot has made refuge. Quinn doesn't know if it's a good omen or a bad one that this man knows where Santana sleeps.

It was just a little after dusk when she left her tent to make the mile trek out to the mill camp. The dark of night is more than welcome now as she slinks along the edge of the deadline in search of the fence shelter she's been told lies just a ways down the stream. The rest of the camp is asleep, small fires just starting to wane without more wood being fed to keep them ablaze.

There's but one fire that she can see ahead beside the stream, so sure it is the one belonging to her friends. _Friends_ , she thinks with a pause. How has she come to regarding them in such light? She's not once spoken to Brittany aside from that one disastrous time the blonde woke and believed she was talking to a mirror image of herself. It'd been amusing at first, until Brittany insisted Santana do something to fix her ugly hair. Quinn felt rather offended at that remark; there was nothing _ugly_ about her hair. There _is_ nothing ugly about her at all.

And Noah, he could hardly be called a friend, what with his incessant flirting.

That only left Santana.

Quinn can see her now, the fire playing across her face from where she sits up against a tree trunk. There's a soft smile upon her lips, one Quinn knows is only reserved for the woman resting down in her lap. There's something amiss in the friendship she's observed between the two women, something Quinn cannot place. Affection, to be sure, but much more than she's seen displayed between other close friends. She doesn't think too much on it, never having had such a close friend in all her life. But the way Brittany reaches up to brush her fingers across a healing bruise upon Santana's cheek speaks differently.

Perhaps women in the North were far more open with their affections for one another? _Definitely_ less reserved than her Southern acquaintances. She's received enough gaudy letters filled with words of compliment and esteem from cousins she's barely spent three minutes time with in New York to know all Northern women must be mad. Santana and Brittany are obviously no exception.

_Women you now supposedly consider friends,_ she reminds herself. Yet they are, she knows, even reluctant as she is to admit it. She approaches quietly, not wishing to startle them.

Noah lies sprawled humming a song as he traces notes in the stars above. She half expects him to be the first to spot her but is surprised when another voice speaks her name instead.

" _Quinn_?" Santana calls out, astonished. She sits up straighter, a relived smile shakily spreading across her lips. Quinn hurries over as Noah springs up, elated.

"How'd you manage to get here?" he asks, grinning as he helps her to settle beside Santana. Santana looks as if she wants nothing more than for Quinn to answer that very question. Her brown eyes rove across Quinn's frame, searching for something Quinn can't even begin to reason.

"I'm right as rain Santana," Quinn chuckles, hoping to ease the other woman's obvious concern. She pats the blanket in her arms before gently tossing it up into Noah's waiting hands. "And I'll bring more the next time, whatever you need. The guards are easily bribed."

"However you managed to get here this time, count yourself _lucky_ ," Santana says, a tinge of alarm still evident in her tone. Her voice hardens though, far more the brusque Santana Quinn's grown accustomed to as she tells her, "You shouldn't try again. Those bastards only want one thing."

They each answer at once.

"Food."

"Sex."

" _What_?" they also each echo as they turn to face one another.

" _Santana_ ," Quinn gasps, horrified. "Has someone tried—"

"You don't think I haven't protected her?" Noah butts in through a mouthful of bread, slighted. "Both of 'em? Ain't no one touching my ladies. Except for, you know, that _one_ time this one here went off on her own," he mutters, pointing over toward Santana with the remaining roll. Santana need not look his way to see the disappointment obvious in his expression. They've had this argument countless times throughout the week and she is _sick_ of feeling guilty for it.

This time it is Quinn focusing Noah's look upon her. "I thought I told you to stick by him _at all times_. You're _lucky_ that's all that's happened to you!"

"I can handle _myself_ ," Santana hisses, swatting away the hand Quinn tries to rise to inspect the bruise further. "And lest you forget I am a _doctor_ so I can also _check_ my own injuries, thank you."

Quinn balks. "You've no issue when Brittany does the same."

Santana's face heats at the remark but Quinn's attention is drawn down to Santana's lap by a burst of giggles from Brittany. Brittany tries to sit up but to no avail. She plops and settles back down in Santana's lap, swiping at the thoughts cluttering her mind as she tells Quinn seriously, "San only ever likes me touching her."

"She's feverish, isn't she?" Quinn finally asks after watching Brittany squirm and chuckle for a moment.

Santana let's out a sigh. "Yes, and we've no means to quell her temperature. Noah and I take shifts keeping her cool in the night, which you think would be easy given that it's so chill here come nightfall. You didn't happen to bring any Quinine with you, did you?" Santana asks hopefully.

Quinn squints, puzzled. "Why would Brittany need it? She's not infected with malaria."

Santana resists rolling her eyes as she tries to calm Brittany back down in her lap. "Your lesson for tonight," Santana quips, pressing another cold cloth to Brittany's forehead. "Quinine has been known to reduce temperatures. Temperatures produced with the onslaught of _fever._ Fever being one of the main symptoms of _malaria_."

"I didn't much appreciate all the _acidity_ you dripped your explanation in," Quinn counters. "I did after all risk _my neck_ to come see you tonight."

"Apologies," Santana grumbles, knowing Quinn to be right. She lets out a tired breath. "To be honest we could have used you here days ago."

"I thought you would have called for me sooner. It's why I came tonight, I was worried. Don't look so surprised."

"I don't look surprised… do I?"

" _I'm_ most certainly glad you've come," Noah chimes in.

Santana snorts. "You're glad for anything upon two legs that wanders your way with a vagina."

"Not true," Noah says as he turns to Quinn with a smile. "Only exceptional beauties."

Quinn purses her lips, eyes narrowing at him before she turns back to Santana. "So Quinine you say? Perhaps I can bring some on my next trip."

"My hair looks horrible still," Brittany mentions, reaching up to brush aside some of the hair falling over Quinn's shoulder. Quinn slaps Brittany's wandering hand away, earning her a well-deserved glare from Santana. _She's feverish Quinn!_ "You really must do something San, it's so _unsightly_."

"Don't pay her any attention Miss Quinn," Noah tells her. "You look a sight as always."

" _Un_ sightly, Noah," Santana corrects him, stifling her laughter. "I believe that's what you said, right Britt?"

"So ugly," Brittany affirms, eyes falling closed.

"Why did I even bother risking my life to come here again?" Quinn wonders aloud.

"I'm sorry," Santana tells her, though it's also said between a few fading chuckles. Quinn's patience wears thinner. "Truly, I'm sorry, you know how people get when they're feverish like this."

"No one ever claims me to be hideous."

"Just your hair though," Santana points out.

"Which is _not_ hideous," Noah adds.

"So your next trip," Santana says, wanting the conversation to move back upon the most pressing of matters. Brittany's wellbeing. "When can you return?"

"Tomorrow perhaps?" Quinn offers, eliciting wide eyes in response from Santana. "Had I known you needed me I'd have come sooner. All it took was a bread roll to gain entry."

If possible Santana's eyes grow wider yet. "That's all it took?"

"Surprisingly, yes."

"A man in want of a full belly will do damn near anything," Noah tells them. "Believe me."

Santana's mind begins churning thoughts far faster than she's able to process them. If but only one roll is all it takes to enter camp…"Do you think perhaps it would work in the reverse?" she asks, voice rising with hope.

Quinn blinks at her. "Pardon?"

A smile has formed across Santana's lips that Noah's not seen in weeks. "If say I were to give them food in exchange for a blind eye, would they let _us_ go?"

Quinn worries her lip between her teeth, but there's a spark of understanding in her eyes. "It would have to be a _hell_ of a feast."

"But it's possible, yes?" Santana ventures, growing excited. "What do they feed you all at the outpost?"

"You're looking at it here," Quinn tells her, motioning down toward the contents of the blanket. Two stale bread rolls and a small package of cornmeal. "This is it."

"Could you—"

"Santana, what you are asking is _impossible_. It'd take weeks for me to gather enough—"

Santana cuts her off. "Then start tomorrow."

Quinn stares at her a moment, considering. _It could work_ , she thinks. _It really could_. "If I do this for you I want—"

"Something in return, of course," Santana says with a roll of her wrist. "Name it."

Quinn already knows the answer before she speaks it aloud. But it surprises her to hear it passing from her lips regardless. "I want to come with you."

It's something she's thought of for a while now, what it would be like to simply vacate her position and flee to the North. She's nothing to stay for, no reason not to run. And to think of the opportunities she could have in the North! Schools for women like her in search of better futures, men whom won't assume her sole goal is to be made a wife. Granted, there are probably a great deal of those but she feels she could tolerate them if she were sat beside them in the same lecture. They can't deny her the right to learn. Not in the North.

"That would be deserting, Quinn," Santana tells her, though Quinn notes, in a much softer tone than she anticipated. "And correct me if I'm wrong but isn't that punishable by _death_ for you all?"

"Only if you're _caught_ ," Quinn grins, confident. Her mind is made up on this matter. "And let me _remind you_ I am facing the same every day I pilfer more stocks for you."

Santana leans back against the tree trunk. "You don't need my permission to follow us North."

"I want a new life, Santana. I want to be a _true_ nurse. I can't have that if I stay. But with you…"

Santana groans and Quinn finds it impossible that one person can look so frustrated yet all the while stroke another's hair with such regard. "You presume I have a _practice_. I've nothing in the North aside from a home."

"That's more than I," Quinn admits quietly, eyes meeting Santana's. "To be quite honest, you're the only friend I've ever known…"

It is the most pathetic of admissions, Santana thinks, staring back at Quinn with a criticizing eye. _At least Quinn has the decency to look ashamed_ , her cheeks tinged with embarrassment as she stares down at Brittany. All remains quiet save for the crackle of the fire and the small crunches of bread Noah chews carefully. Santana is just waiting for Quinn to say something, to smirk up at her and declare the admission the most absurd of lies. Quinn is never quite so literal, let alone so… unguarded. But she is, Santana realizes, watching as Quinn reaches out, tucking a wayward section of Brittany's hair back across her ear. She's been so good to them. And would it truly be so bad for Quinn to remain a part of their life?

Aside from the woman being in dire need of a hair trim Santana thinks not.

"Have you always been this melodramatic?" Santana asks with a small smile. Quinn laughs, shaking her head.

She's not so surprised this time when Santana reaches forward and gives her a hug. And unlike before this one is not out of relief, nor some semblance of Northern cordial obligations. This is an embrace simply for her. Santana's next words only reinforce that fact further.

"You've a home with us."

Quinn allows herself to hug Santana back. _"Thank you_ ," she whispers.

"I should be saying the same to you," Santana says as they break apart. "You're the one risking everything to come see us. Thank you."

"Wow, sincerity," Quinn quips, though smiles kindly. "How rare."

"I'd like to thank you too, Quinn," Noah says, and for once his tone is not that of a man in want of attention. He nods down to Brittany, a small smile at the corner of his mouth. "You're helpin' her when you've not anything to get in return. That's mighty good of you."

And for once his flattery warms her cheeks. "Santana and I haven't finished our lessons is all," Quinn supplies in way of explanation.

"You want to be a doctor too?" Noah asks, impressed.

Santana watches the exchange curiously and with surprise. _Noah is actually being entirely… polite._

Quinn shakes her head, this time her blush evident. "Just a nurse is all. Maybe a midwife someday but that's a long ways from now so who's to know."

"You like babes, eh?" Noah asks and Santana must withhold the exasperated sigh she wishes to expel. Sometimes Noah is entirely far too predictable. "I can't wait to be a father myself, you know, when the right woman comes along and—"

"You can just stop there," Quinn tells him, earning a great measure of respect in Santana's eyes. "You were doing quite well for yourself and then ruined all chance with such trite."

Santana smirks. "How about I detail childbirth for you Quinn, since midwifery interests you so?"

As if on cue Noah scoots forward, reaching for Brittany. "I think I'll go get her to bed and watch over her for a while."

Santana hadn't been joking about instructing Quinn in childbirth, a fact that Noah knows he's only brought upon himself. He also thinks she goes through it once more after just to add more salt to his wounded pride.

It's not till much later when Quinn begins to say her goodbyes with the promise of returning again soon with Brittany's medication.

Noah scrambles out from the shelter, quick to extend a hand down to Quinn. Whether it is her own obliviousness or purposeful Quinn stands without a look spared toward him. He seems not bothered by it as he offers to walk her back toward the deadline, even going so far as to broaden his already large grin and swell his chest high atop his ribs.

Santana doesn't think she's ever seen a display quite so transparently pitiable.

As if by sheer providence Quinn's gaze darts down to meet her own, a look of exasperation contained within as she rolls her eyes and straightens her posture. But her annoyance is mild at best, Santana notes, especially with the way Quinn's lips quirk ever so slightly up. And as with Brittany, the fair-skinned woman is unable to hide the slight blush upon her cheeks.

"I'd appreciate that," Quinn says to him, yet her attention is solely upon ensuring all the dirt has been brushed down from her skirt. She looks up toward him for a brief moment; hands still dusting off the bits of broken twigs from her dress. She's every intention of giving him a smile in thanks but must instead quell the laugh that wishes to spill forth at Noah's overtly confident stance. It seems even men of the North were just as shameless as those in the South.

Though she admits, at least Noah's brazen manner comes from within the heart of, so far as she can tell, a good man. She can't resist though as she gives his chest a few pats otherwise reserved for a touch she'd lie upon a kitten's head and tells him, "The bravado, while amusing, needs to never be displayed again."

"This is what a man looks like," Noah boasts as he extends his elbow out for her to take. His chest is still stuck out proudly and Santana knows his muscles must be starving for much needed relief. The pain must be negligible, or worthwhile, for he shows not a bit of strain in his voice nor upon his brow. If anything his grin grows ever more confidant as he tells Quinn, "You're just not used to it, what with all them sissy Southern boys about."

"Said the peacock to his wilting plume," Quinn says, amused as she links their arms and throws another exasperated look back down to Santana. But Santana simply waves her away with a few wiggled fingers, knowing better than to believe Quinn's expression.

Once they are a good deals away Brittany crawls out from within their rail shelter, not wasting a second as she lies back down beside the fire and plops her head square into Santana's lap.

"I thought she'd never get," Brittany whispers, sighing with content as she flexes her chilled feet closer toward the welcome flames. _She must be feeling better_ , Santana smiles.

"Quinn's not so bad," Santana tells her, hands already running softly through Brittany's hair. "Sometimes irritating, impatient, curt—"

"You?" Brittany interjects with a telling smirk.

Santana gives Brittany's nose a quick flick as she laughs. "Okay, yes, _perhaps_ we're a bit alike."

"And I wasn't talkin' about being happy for her to leave," Brittany corrects herself. "I heard you teaching her about babies. I like Quinn enough but I was getting real lonely in there all by myself. Noah was too busy trying not to pay attention to what you all were saying to even talk to me. He kept putting the cloth in my mouth by accident."

"I'm sorry, I should have sent her away sooner."

"No, you were helping her," Brittany smiles. "You used to help me just like that."

"That feels so long ago…"

Brittany reaches up, her touch more sure as she cups Santana's face in the palm of her hand. " _This_ is just like then."

Santana looks down at her, eyes filled with longing. "Just because we're sitting by a fire doesn't make this in any way the same."

"But it is. Just us talking and—"

"You're sick and I'm..."

"Afraid?" Brittany offers, smiling sadly. "One of us was always hurting in some way and you were afraid for a long time too."

Santana closes her eyes as she takes a deep breath. The feel of Brittany's hand against her cheek is calming but, " _This_ isn't the same."

"It's different but I don't care," Brittany tells her, tucking some of Santana's hair back behind her ear.

"We're in a verified _prison camp_ ," Santana whispers.

Brittany gives a gentle tug down on Santana's neck so she can whisper, "And I said I don't care."

Santana shakes her head as she wraps a hand gently around Brittany's wrist. Brittany tries not to look down at the touch. Every time she sees the damage done to Santana's skin by the rope binds she feels her heart take up residence in her throat. "You should Britt. We could—"

"Die?" Brittany whispers, earning her an alarmed stare from Santana. "I'm not stupid San, I know where we are."

"And do you truly not care?"

Brittany thinks upon it for a moment, terrifying Santana with her pause. "I do..." she begins to say, needing those brown eyes not to water so. She rubs her thumb against Santana's cheek, giving her a small smile. "But whatever may scare me about tomorrow or being here hurts less because I know you're here, and Noah."

The words are spoken with such confidence Santana can do nothing more than accept them fully into her heart. She wipes the small collection of sweat over Brittany's hairline, knowing the fever has yet to break despite this lucid moment. She wants this Brittany back, so much so. Her mouth begins to form the familiar words she feels she's spoken to Brittany everyday _. I miss you_ just on the tip of her tongue when Brittany speaks again, shattering the small hope that once bloomed in her chest.

"Even if this isn't real, you're still always here."

How Santana wishes it all a dream.


	21. Road Home, Part I

There's a strong scent of pine needles in the muggy dawn air as Brittany wakes. A winter storm having passed as she slept through the night is accountable for such a humid morn. She wonders briefly just how long it must have rained for the smell of it to linger so richly in the trees. She's tired though, and lets the thought pass in favor of a blank mind and relaxed body. Her eyes remain closed as she listens to the soft patter of drizzle against the shelter wall. Occasionally one or two drops are able to slip through the boughs of branches packed atop, but their appearance is negligible. The blanket draped across both women easily absorbs the water, keeping them unaware and dry. It's as calm a morning as they've had since arriving at the camp, even given the dip in temperature the storm has brought.

Brittany breathes the heavy air in deep, stretching her legs out as she stifles a yawn into the crook of her elbow. At her back she can feel the fading remnants of warmth along the ground, the kind she knows belonged to Noah. _He must have crawled inside to escape the rain_ , she thinks. Though where he's gone to now she's not sure. _To fetch breakfast? To gather dry firewood? To pursue Quinn?_ She's not worried though; in fact she is glad for his absence. Her skin already feels aflame and the prickle of sweat along her brow can attest to the fever so ready to break.

She's quite done with being so indisposed.

With a frustrated swipe of her hand across her forehead she removes whatever perspiration has collected during the morning hours. Nothing sounds better to her right now than to simply lie herself down outside this shelter and let the cold water from the heavens above wash over her. _That_ would surely subdue this fever.

And give Santana unnecessary strife.

Brittany lets out a long breath as she finally opens her eyes. She cannot let Santana worry so, not after everything she's sacrificed for her. Turning to her side she stares over at the sleeping woman and wonders when the last time she woke before her was. She can't remember, nor does she think she needs to for the answer is clearly never. Santana is as much in need of rest as she is, possibly more so now. Brittany can see the fever cloth held loosely in Santana's hand; the one Santana always so carefully places over her heated forehead and neck. How late had she stayed up to care for her? How much longer can she carry on like this?

She sleeps now, sprawled on her stomach as much as she can be inside the cramped shelter. Dark hair is unwashed and tousled. The smell of dirt, smoke and sweat are thick upon her clothes. And her cheekbones… they're more prominent than ever before. Alarmingly so. She looks not at all the woman Brittany once knew.

Any yet she's still beautiful, even in ruin.

For all the misery she sees, Brittany still wants this moment to be real; forces herself to believe it with all her heart. She doesn't want to forget seeing Santana like this. _Look at all she's given up for you_ , she tells herself. _Look at what it's done to her…_

She wants something tangible to remember, no matter how insignificant a flash in time it may be when it's all over. If all of this camp she's able to recall is this, it will be enough.

To her, it says everything.

Soon Noah will return from wherever it is he's wandered to, but right now Brittany has this moment. She's not sure what she wants to come of it exactly, but her body seems to have decided upon a response for her. Her fingers twitch, itching to reach forward across the small space separating her from Santana.

Slowly, not wishing to wake her just yet, Brittany slides her hand over the tattered blanket they've fashioned into their bed. Never once has such a small movement sounded so loud to her ears. It blares around her as if a torrent of commotion instead of a simple brush of fingertips against fabric. She stops, so sure Santana must have heard.

Santana doesn't stir though, not even a crinkle of her nose.

Brittany's gaze darts up toward Santana's ear, heart sinking as she recalls just why the woman may be unresponsive to sound. _Will she ever hear from that ear again?_

A drop of water falls down from the shelter covering, splashing against the back of Brittany's hand. It's the smallest of invasions yet sends a chill of shivers rolling down her arm. A momentary reprieve from the heat otherwise seeming to consume her.

Her hand does find its home, nestled just against Santana's jaw and the blanket. She can't tell whose skin is warmer, but brushes her knuckles along Santana's skin anyway. It must be her own, she knows, letting her fingers splay upward to caress a taut cheek. She misses the soft curve that would have once met her touch, worrying for what this new contour must mean for Santana's health. Brittany's used to skipping meals, sometimes even going a day or more without a bite to eat. Months spent living only off of watered down potato broth. Winters could be harsh upon farmers in Lima. But Santana's not accustomed to such conditions and Brittany's fairly sure that before coming to this war a meal was never once skipped at her home.

_It ain't her home no more_ , she reminds herself ardently. _And it_ never _was._

And even though a small part of her feels need to bring thoughts of Santana's wretched father forward, Brittany is quick to push any memory of Dr. Lopez aside. He is dead and gone now, never to bother them again. He deserves no ounce of pity, nor a second spared in mourning. _He deserves to be forgotten_ , she thinks. Always.

Even so, he's not completely banished from her thoughts. For despite all his many faults he did provide for Santana a life seldom few ever achieve. How could a small farm in Lima compare to the sophistication of a city like Cincinnati? How could Santana ever wish to stay with her, poor and hungry as her family is at times? How could she ever feel provided for when Brittany feels she can hardly provide for herself…

How will Lima ever be good enough?

The fear is one that has seldom shown its face to her for she's kept it purposely buried. Santana deserves the best in life, something Brittany knows she will never be able to give her once they return home. Happiness will only extend so far before the weight of life in Lima settles in.

_Emily is dying…_

_Santana is starving…_

Brittany closes her eyes tight to keep any more such thoughts at bay.

When she opens them again she makes a promise to herself. She may not be able to provide the life Santana was once accustomed to but she will damn well do her best to make sure she doesn't ever have to see Santana like this again. Not ever.

"I'll take care of you, San," she whispers to her with utmost conviction. Santana's eyebrows crease, dipping just a hair lower along her forehead. Brittany runs her thumb softly over the sharpest point of Santana's cheek, urging brown eyes to open. " _I promise_."

Santana makes a throaty noise in response, almost questioning in its cadence. Brittany can't help but grin at how endearing a sound it is. She watches as Santana slowly wakes; first a shift down of her shoulder as she rolls up to her side. Her eyes remain squeezed shut as she inhales deeply. Then they open lazily with a long hum followed by Brittany's favorite moment; the smile that pulls across Santana's lips once her gaze focuses upon blue eyes. It's sleepy, assured and most of all content. A perfect contrast to their circumstance.

A perfect way to forget all her troubles.

Santana turns her head slightly into Brittany's touch, nuzzling her cheek against Brittany's palm. She presses a light kiss to the center, lingering with a smile. Brittany feels a firm knot tie itself deep within her gut, her skin growing more heated in response. Santana's smile fades as she pulls back from Brittany's hand, expression unsettled. Not a second later she presses her lips harder into the center of Brittany's palm. Brittany grows confused yet keeps her hand still, knowing Santana would only become more concerned if she were to suddenly pull away.

"I swear I washed it," Brittany says quietly, hoping it's a mere issue of cleanliness. Though why Santana would need to kiss her to prove it she's uncertain.

Though to be honest, she also doesn't recall washing her hands at all.

And if she had it would have only been with water from the stream.

How she misses soap.

Santana shakes her head in answer as she places Brittany's hand back down to the ground. "You're too warm," she notes in a whisper as her eyes flit across the deep blush spread upon Brittany's face. Dark eyes meet Brittany's own, concerned. "And you're all flushed. Do you feel hot?"

Brittany does, more so now than when she first woke. She gives a nod, though knows the heat now is exacerbated by far more needful impulses. She nods again.

This time it's Santana's hand that comes to rest against Brittany's cheek. "Would you like me to get you a cool cloth?" she asks, touch tender.

Brittany shakes her head, not wishing for Santana to leave. They've not been alone in so long. Noah would be back any minute…

"Quinn is going to bring you some medicine soon," Santana tells her softly, brushing a small section of Brittany's hair back across her forehead. Brittany's eyes fall closed as Santana runs her fingers back behind Brittany's ear. "It should help bring your fever down."

"I don't feel so sick," Brittany murmurs, eyes slowly opening once more.

Santana's smile falters, a flicker of something passing in her gaze that Brittany can't place. The fingers tracing gentle patterns behind Brittany's ear still, slipping down to rest along her neck. There's a trace of disappointment in the way Santana let her hand fall so. Her next words echo the sentiment. "Then tell me," she whispers, leaning closer. "Is this real?"

Brittany wants to nod. _Yes, this is real_. How could it be anything but? She knows she's taken too long to answer when Santana's eyes grow somber, and the once hopeful crease at the corner of her mouth disappears. She's asked her this question so many times, Brittany's answer never seems to be quite enough. Will Santana even believe her now? A fog begins to form in Brittany's mind, vision tunneling the longer her response remains unspoken.

Santana slips back, eyes cast down to the blanket in an effort to hide her letdown.

Brittany thinks she was never so good with words anyway.

Lightheaded, she surges forward, and with a tug against the back of Santana's neck crashes their lips together. There's a yelp of surprise from Santana, muffled as Brittany's lips quickly fit against her top. If Santana had any qualms they are swiftly forgotten when, far more assured, Brittany pushes her down onto her back. The siding of the shelter rattles against the sudden impact, rainwater slipping down between the cracks to splash against Brittany's back. She cares not as it soaks through the fabric of her uniform shirt. The cool sensation is welcome, quelling her heated skin beneath and easing the burn rapidly building deep in her belly. She always feels like this when kissing Santana so thoroughly. All flashes of fires licking at a suddenly weightless heart. Unbounded and _real_.

She always forgets to breathe.

Somewhere in the back of Santana's mind she knows she shouldn't be immersed with Brittany in such a way, not while she's in need of time to recover. But to hell with all of that, she also thinks, squirming under the touch Brittany trails with a hand up her side. Her breath catches, swallowed in another kiss.

Brittany can _definitely_ rest later.

Stopping is the last thing upon Brittany's mind; so intent she's become with searing this memory as real. Santana tastes of stale bread, all tepid and unpolished. She's hesitant in the way she deepens the kiss, almost embarrassed for what Brittany must think of her state. Though if Brittany minds her actions show it not, lips more than willing to part for a tongue to slip between. It feels strange, kissing Brittany in such a way without fear or care for what's to come. But all rational thought fled the moment her back hit the ground. She has only fragments of thoughts now, fears far removed.

The feelings which burn so hotly within her may spur the boldness of her movements but they're never truly the source of her actions. It's never just a kiss between them. Sometimes it's an apology or a promise, slow and lingering. Countless pardons made and desires returned. Hungers quenched, understanding reached. This is no different. A change of pressure from Brittany a sorry for all that has been wrought upon them. A nip of a bottom lip replies that it matters not. Santana draws Brittany nearer with a cup of flushed cheeks against her palms. _We're okay_.

And when Brittany pulls away she momentarily bemoans the end of their kiss, her expression appropriately dismayed by the loss. Until that same tongue drags a hot path down her neck and all abandon is gone with it.

Santana arches up from the ground, one arm thrown behind Brittany's shoulders as the other desperately tries to find purchase in the blanket they lie upon. Whatever noise wishes to spill from her lips is held back with a whimpered breath, her stomach a mess of flutters in all its empty glory.

Brittany eases her back down with a press of her hips against Santana's, this time a grunt of satisfaction more than making itself heard. Her mouth draws a path back up to Santana's ear, a gentle nibble placed against the healing skin. "You're real," Brittany answers her finally, easing any pain she may have caused with a soft kiss. "Real, real, real…"

Santana pulls her down sharply, hugging Brittany as near as she's able. Her eyes have predictably started to water with tears she feels too ashamed to acknowledge. Crying over such a simple admission? Truly? She's glad Brittany can't see her face, but more so glad the fever is finally starting to break. She's missed _her_ Brittany; _this_ one. She never wishes to let her go.

Brittany pushes up just enough to continue her trail back toward Santana's mouth, only the slightest of pauses paid when one of Santana's knees draws up between her thighs. She bites down a bit too hard on Santana's neck at that move, eliciting a hiss and fingernails driven into her arms in response.

"Sorry," she whispers, kissing the mark her teeth rendered against Santana's neck.

"I know you're hungry but _my god,_ Britt," Santana says, unable to hold back a chuckle. "Cannibalism is so unbefitting you."

Brittany doesn't really understand why Santana finds her own statement so amusing. Cannon balls are certainly nothing to joke over. And entirely unbefitting of her indeed. Sometimes Brittany thinks Santana loses her mind a bit when she's with her like this. Brittany feels rather proud of the fact.

"How long till Noah returns?" Santana asks, breathless as she moves back up to her side. Brittany's kisses against her neck slow. Santana can feel the hum of thought Brittany makes against her skin, and with a groan sinks her hands into short hair to keep her in place.

"Don't. Know," Brittany says between each new press of her mouth against untouched skin. She hovers up over Santana's lips, just grazing them with her own. "Soon?"

Their eyes meet; Santana's dark and squinted in consideration, Brittany's clouded with want and anticipation. Santana's heart beats faster at the look.

It's quiet save for the sound of their mingled breaths and steady flow of the stream just beyond the shelter wall. So the ting of Santana's fingernails against Brittany's belt buckle rings piercingly clear. Brittany's stomach muscles clench, a shiver soon following when Santana's fingers brush just beneath the waistband of her slacks. Her eyes flutter shut and she inhales sharply, arching her hips closer in hopes Santana's hand dips further.

Santana kisses her soundly, pulling away just enough to admit her desire aloud. "I don't think I can wait till we're home." It's barely a whisper, spoken low and honestly.

Brittany's unable to speak, voice reduced to grunts and garbled English. She nods her agreement instead and hopes she answered right. Should it have been a shake?

Does tangling her feet between Santana's and tugging her arm lower count for anything?

She thinks she's being plainly obvious.

So it is with much relief that she feels Santana's hands work to undo the belt. Dark eyes are focused down when Brittany looks upon her. There's a look of concentration about Santana's features, hidden beneath her craving for this to continue. A heedless fear remains in the shadows of the back of her mind, reminding her that Noah is sure to return shortly with their morning meals and they must make haste. Her trepidation is gone when Brittany's lips are once more upon her own, slick and swollen and wonderful. Santana need not unfasten the sole button of Brittany's slacks, enough space having formed with the release of her belt. Without hesitation, she slides her hand beneath the loose waistband, fingertips quick to slip between the apex of Brittany's thighs. Searing heat meets her hand, along with a sharp pain in her face when Brittany's forehead collides with her nose.

It still stings as Brittany pushes her body closer, but the pain is negligible, practically forgotten as she quickly endeavors to bring Brittany a much-needed release.

Brittany hasn't even noticed her carelessness, too consumed with the feel of Santana's fingers brushing against her to care for anything more. She bucks against Santana's hand with a moan and throws a long leg across Santana's hip for better contact. Santana doesn't think she's ever seen Brittany look so intent upon anything as she does now with her hand trapped in precisely the way Brittany wishes it to be. Flashes of white spot Brittany's vision at the feel of one of Santana's fingers slowly tracing around her center.

Santana can't tell if it's the fever that's made Brittany so hot or if she simply burns like this for her.

" _Santana_ ," Brittany breathes out, her hip pushing down firmly against Santana's hand. Kissing her again, Santana adheres to the plea, her longest finger easily curling within the folds. Brittany pulls away from the kiss with a gasp, head thrown back as her hand digs into Santana's arm. She can't catch her breath, nor does she wish to. Her lungs are starved for air she feels she doesn't need so long as Santana continues the slow pace within her. She pants hard, erratic against Santana's ear, broken whispers of instruction uttered for every breath she's able to spare. If only she'd just, _ah_ … "Yeah, _there_ ," she manages to rasp out.

"Ladies, I have procured us breakfast," Noah calls out as he plops down just a few feet beyond the shelter entrance.

Santana halts, breath held, waiting for the inevitable appearance of Noah's head peeking inside to find them so obviously entwined. _Never to hear the end of it_ , she thinks with an inward groan. Brittany pauses too, heart pounding frantically against her chest and Santana's. She's unwilling to move, her leg still firmly locked in place across Santana's hip, two of Santana's fingers very much buried within her. The heat is unbearable, twisting inside her so thickly she clutches harder to Santana's arm in response. She catches Santana's eye, silently begging of her to continue. She knows Santana wishes to, can see it just there in the darkening of her gaze.

Slowly, quietly, she rolls her hips forward against Santana's palm. The heat radiating from within her belly dissipates, replaced instead with that inebriating shiver she's quickly grown addicted to the sensation of.

" _Brittany_ ," Santana hisses, and yet despite the admonishment in her tone she curls her fingers deeper. Brittany must bite back the groan and shudder that ripple through her. "Just a moment!" Santana quickly throws over her shoulder, hoping the words are enough to keep Noah away.

Brittany wants to cry out as she pushes her hips faster against Santana's motions, but pulls her lips between her teeth before she can utter a sound, face buried in Santana's hair. She clings tighter to Santana, eyes tautly shut and teeth bearing down hard into her bottom lip. Sweat breaks out across her skin, shirt sticking to her body. Santana's teeth rake against the hollow of her throat and Brittany's toes curl within her boots as she finally comes undone. She trembles in Santana's hold, heat escaping from within her in a heavy sheen of sweat upon her skin. Her legs convulse, twitching, one kicking against the shelter wall and sending the remaining rainwater atop them both.

"If what I think is going on in there, is truly going on in there _without_ me…" Noah's voice warns in jest from just behind the entrance covering.

Santana lets out a growl, still holding Brittany to her as she snaps, "Keep away, _Puckerman_!"

Loud laughter carries into the shelter, retreating in sound as Noah settles himself back beside the fire ring. "Well, that about confirms it," Noah says between his fit of chuckles.

Brittany rolls onto her back, grinning despite herself. Her limbs feel tingly and weightless, mind a wonderful muddled mess all centered upon Santana. "I love you," she whispers in a slur. "So, so much."

Santana stares down at her for a moment, the softest of smiles upon her lips. She mouths the same back before hovering close to tell her, "Stay here as long as you need, Britt. I need to go… _deal_ with, Noah."

Brittany gives her a crooked smile in return. "Remember when I told you… you make me feel like I've… a fever?" she asks between long drawn breaths.

Santana nods, recalling the memory. Her face heats remembering what else transpired afterward, and a smirk forms to her lips. "I could see about cooling you off," she says, gaze venturing down to the topmost buttons of Brittany's wrinkled shirt.

"Your _breakfast_ is cooling off," Noah notes, now bored and put out in tone.

Santana purses her lips to keep the chuckle bubbling in her throat at bay. She raises a brow down at Brittany, a silent question of ' _well_?' upon her expression.

"Maybe later?" Brittany whispers, hopeful.

Santana leans down, answering her with a quick kiss.

Noah is staring impatiently at the shelter when Santana finally emerges. With a roll of his eyes he motions down to where he's laid her cornmeal, sullen as he slurps at his own tin cup.

"I can't believe you both," he mutters between small mouthfuls. " _Five minutes_ I was gone."

"It was not five minutes," Santana's says without pause for thought, slighted. The tin cup stills in its path to her lips, eyes widening as she realizes how implicating her tone truly sounded.

Naturally, when she looks up, Noah is smirking at her from over the rim of his cup.

Santana lets out a groan and tosses a burnt stick at his head. "Bastard."

"I'm a man, Santana," he says with a chuckle. "I've _needs_."

"I've need to reintroduce my palm to your face but you don't see me making motions to see that desire met."

Noah waves the threat off. "I'm too far from you anyway."

"As if that's ever stopped me from hitting you before."

"No," Noah notes, grinning slyly. "But you wouldn't want to hurt your hand before your session with Britt later now, _would you_?"

Santana smirks back. "You may suffer the inability to bring yourself – and let's be honest here— a _fleeting_ ounce of flesh indulgence when dealt a wounded hand, but I've _two_ which are _both_ perfectly apt."

"You do realize you're basically implying you'll be having sex with her again today, right?"

"That would be wonderful!" Brittany chimes in, still from within the shelter.

Santana feels her cheeks warm. "We were not having sex."

"The land of delusions you call home is somewhere I need to frequent," Noah tells her as he reclines back against a tree. He crosses his arms over his chest, staring over at Santana with a pout. "Because you were, and it was probably great, and I am entirely jealous."

"As you should be."

"So you admit it then?"

"Not ever," Santana grins, about to bring her tin cup back up to her mouth when Brittany crawls out from the shelter. She sets it down, reaching for Brittany's own only to stop when a blonde head lies itself down in her lap. Santana smiles down at her. "Hi, Britt."

"Can't even walk," Noah mutters beneath his breath, folding his arms tighter as he sips at his breakfast with far more hostility than it demands. " _Unbelievable_."

Santana throws him a silencing look from over her shoulder.

"I feel hot again," Brittany tells her, adjusting into a more comfortable position along the ground.

Noah pushes off from the tree. "I'll get her a cloth," he says, all past joking pushed aside. Santana had warned him countless times of the consequences that would come of leaving Brittany's rising temperature unchecked. She never quite made it to saying death, Noah already promising to do whatever he could for her the moment Santana needed a hand. He looks at her confirmation now.

Santana gives him a nod and genuine smile in thanks. He may grate upon her every nerve, but when it matters, he can always be trusted.

"I felt okay with you," Brittany whispers, brow furrowing over closed eyes. "Everything's spinning."

_The fever_ , Santana thinks, forlorn. _It hasn't quelled a bit_. "Here," she whispers softly, rubbing a soothing pattern over Brittany's tense shoulders. "Relax and lie still, it'll pass."

Brittany squirms. "It's too _warm_ out here."

Santana touches a hand to Brittany's cheek, alarmed to find her so heated. She looks up in search of Noah, only to find another man making his way toward her.

One she never wished to lay eyes upon again.

" _Leave us_!" she hollers out to Artie, incensed that he's sought her out.

"Miss Santana, I—" Artie begins to say only for Noah to plant himself firmly in Artie's path.

He looks down at Artie, perplexed by why Santana would sound so worked up over such a harmless-looking man. His expression hardens though as a thought comes to mind. "Is _he_ the one who struck you?" he asks Santana, gaze set in a glare down toward the disabled man.

"No! No, he's not," Santana quickly supplies upon seeing the way Noah's fists begin to clench. She lets out a sigh. "Noah, it's fine."

"You all see him too?" Brittany asks, surprised. Then she leans up toward Santana to whisper, " _I think he's come for our legs_."

Santana feels she cannot deal with two such setbacks at once. To Brittany she offers a calm hand through shortened hair, to Artie a biting dismissal. "Leave cripple."

"I'm sorry to have bothered, I just wished to make amends," Artie explains, realizing the man upon the ground must be the one whom Santana stayed behind for. Of what he can see the man seems pained by something, his shirt drenched in places with what Artie presumes to be sweat. _A fever,_ he knows, now wary of approaching. Artie forces his eyes back upon Santana, unsurprised to find her own gaze narrowed with distrust. "I've spoken with a sentry, near the southern wall. The company is stationed here for at least a fortnight more. He's agreed to find your nurse for you, if you still require her attention."

He is met with silence from Santana and the cracking of Noah's knuckles.

Knowing when his presence has expired he gives a tip of his cap toward her. "I'll take my leave now."

Santana watches as he pulls himself away, his useless legs heavily dragging behind him over the muddy ground. Brittany makes a noise in sympathy for him as she settles her head back down in Santana's lap. Santana doesn't share in her pity. There's only the slightest twitch of – what she feels is – _unwarranted_ guilt bubbling in her stomach. For she can't help but wonder what he had to give up for that information. _Not that it matters now that Quinn's found us_ , she also quickly amends to herself.

Brittany begins humming a familiar song, quiet and heavy-eyed.

Santana's anger and guilt are easily forgotten.

Artie Abrams too.

* * *

**December 22nd, 1862**

With the passing of the rains has now come a blanket of fresh snow. And as always the air warms just ever so slightly with its appearance. Santana's always struggled to understand why when the ground has frozen over that the temperature somehow rises. She's glad for it though, even the few degrees of difference makes for more comfortable nights spent curled at Brittany's side. And with Brittany's fever gone, she need not worry about wetting cloths in the stream during the dead of night. No more hallucinations, no more fever dreams.

They smile more now, even still trapped as they are.

Quinn has come every night since that first. Foremost, she returned with Quinine for Brittany. The next time, it was forceps for removing her stitches, in exchange for which she received a much-needed lesson in frostbite from Santana. Food never accompanies her; so unwilling she is to take more than the amount she's been stealing from the reserves in arrangement for their escape. Quinn feels horrid having to hand over whatever ration she was able to squander for a bribe to the Southern guard she's now begun to favor on her trips. Her friends are more in need of the meal than he. When she arrives at their small camp she tries not to stare with worry at the way they seem to lose weight by the day. Santana's already caught her a few times too many. The retort thrown her way afterward just as harsh as the lines now etched along her face. Their once fitted clothes drape loosely on their famished bodies. They're so very hungry yet too proud to ever admit so. Only Brittany seems in high spirits, greeting Quinn warmly upon every visit.

They share a smile before the smell of her unwashed body meets Quinn's nose.

She tries not too breathe in too deeply when she sits beside them all.

Upon Quinn's last visit she managed to smuggle a fresh bar of soap. It hardly helped to clean them much, the stream water too frigid for bathing properly and tin cups too small for heating enough to wash with. She helped Santana with her hair though; the woman adamant that if soap was to be used her hair was the first thing upon her body in need of attention.

She wears it braided now, not knowing when next she'll get the chance to wash again.

Brittany finds it becoming, always wanting to pull it down over Santana's shoulder whenever she tosses it behind her neck.

"It looks better this way," she always says as she moves it back, letting her fingers brush against Santana's neck as she does.

But Santana pushes it back after a few minutes anyway, just waiting for the moment when Brittany will notice and come adjust it again.

She sits beside Santana now after once such occurrence, absentmindedly twisting the end strands of the braid between her fingers. It's nearing supper time and soon they will need to kindle their evening fire to ward off the chill of night. But for now they idle the hour away as so many have done since they were forced into this camp. Santana's focused down upon the game of chess she and Noah have crudely drawn into the dirt. She moves a clump of snow forward, her pawn melting just a tinge more with the warm touch of her fingertip.

Brittany's never cared for the game but she managed to make a few horses for Santana upon request. They're a might headless now but nevertheless far more distinguishable than the lumps of snow and sticks Santana has made for her other pieces… and far more appealing than the rocks Noah uses for his. Chess reminds her home. Of evenings sat beside fires when the snow was too thick to head to town. She'd watch her father and Emily play for hours; never once tiring of the stories they'd all share. She misses them so much.

She's not paying attention to the game being played now or the petty name-calling that's ensued. Her eyes are riveted to her arm, unable to look away from the pale skin. Brittany hasn't seen her bare arm in weeks and now without the bandages she's grown so accustomed to wearing she feels a bit exposed. She is itchy beyond belief as well. The feel of her shirtsleeve feels foreign as it rubs right over the now sealed skin. Santana had been so meticulous in her work last night as she pulled the stitches out. It's still a bit tender to the touch, especially after having slept upon it in such a funny angle and Santana's head didn't help pressing against the crook of her elbow as it did.

Brittany hadn't the heart to move her.

But she's happy for the loss of the bandages, even if the reminder of the night she gained them is forever scarred across her skin. She releases Santana's hair to trace over the jagged mark.

"It looks like a river," she thinks aloud, tilting her head as she squints down at the scar. "A lousy one." She scratches at the raised and bumpy edges.

Santana's hand is quick to cover Brittany's, stilling any more harm she can do upon herself. "Don't," she warns softly. "You're still healing."

"But it itches so bad, San."

"That's normal," Santana explains to her, sliding another clump of snow nearer to one of Noah's pebbles. He fumes silently. With a smirk first thrown toward Noah, Santana turns to Brittany, her smile relaxed. "In another week or so it won't bother you at all."

Brittany lets her forehead drop down to Santana's shoulder with a groan. "I don't want to be here in another week," she mutters.

Noah looks up from the game, staring over at Santana with understanding. He can help no more with this wish than she. Quinn is the only one who can determine when they are to leave. Their fate is in her hands. Santana lets out a breath as she leans her head against Brittany's and rubs her thumb gently over one of Brittany's crossed knees.

"We're getting away from here as soon as we're able," Santana tells her.

Brittany pulls away to look at her. "When?" she asks, eyes darting between Santana's in search of the truth. It's always soon; _any day now Brittany, don't worry Britt. We'll be home soon_. She's tired of the uncertainty. She's tired of being _here_. " _When_ , Santana?"

Santana blinks, biting her lip as she says, "soon."

Brittany's eyes squeeze shut against the word.

"Brittany," Santana sighs, reaching for her.

"I think I'll go fetch us supper," Noah mumbles, giving Santana an apologetic look before he stands to his feet and leaves for the ration distribution line.

"I know this isn't a hard camp to leave," Brittany says, motioning in the direction Noah walks. "I've seen the fence. Anyone could walk right past it!"

"It's not just that," Santana tells her, her tone quieted as she waits until Brittany's heated stare is back upon her. Blue softens, the hard line of Brittany's mouth easing as she sees the in dread brown eyes. "They'd _shoot_ us before we can make it to the trees."

"I'm not sick no more," Brittany says, her smile faltering yet hopeful. "That's why we stayed wasn't it? So that I could be well enough to run?"

Santana's gaze drops down to her lap. "Part of it…"

"Then why else?"

"Quinn needs to collect enough food so the guards nearby turn a blind eye," Santana explains and instantly Brittany understands. For once Santana is not in control. She's trusting their lives to Quinn. _Everything_. "She's not enough yet. It's all upon her…"

Brittany leans forward, surprising Santana with a hard kiss. "I hate it here," she mumbles against full lips.

"We all do," Santana whispers back in similar fashion. With a few more pecks Brittany pulls away, smiling at her confidently. Santana tires to return it but instead quips, "Let's just hope Quinn's a much better thief than student."

" _I_ was a terrible student once too," Brittany points out. "And you didn't give up on me."

Santana's grin turns shy as she admits, "I just wanted to be near you."

"I know," Brittany whispers. "You would get just like this back then too."

Santana let's out a huff and a laugh. "I did not. I was _horrid_ to you."

"Your words were mean but your eyes said different," Brittany elaborates, walking her fingers across Santana's palm. She draws an apple over the warm skin and gazes up through her lashes at Santana. And there, plain as day, Santana's gaze has softened considerably at her touch. "Just like they are now."

Santana closes her hand around Brittany's, relenting to her with a smile. "So it would seem."

"I can't wait to go home with you," Brittany tells her, eyes bright.

"We will," Santana says, raising Brittany's hand to press a solid kiss to the back of her fingers. "I promise."

"I wish everyone could leave with us too," Brittany tells her as she tosses some dry firewood into the ash filled circle in preparation for the fire she and Noah will work to start upon his return. She perks, remembering, "Can the half man come?"

_Half man?_ Santana asks herself. It only takes a beat for her to place the term to a face. _Artie. Of course._ Leave it to Brittany to recall that _momentary_ instance where he dragged himself into their lives. She rather hoped Brittany had forgotten or, at the very least, believed it all a vivid dream. "He can't _walk_ Britt, how do you expect him to—" Santana begins to say only for Brittany to interrupt.

"You didn't leave me when I couldn't."

Santana swallows hard. "I _love_ you Brittany," she tells her thickly. "Of course I'd never leave you."

"Maybe Quinn could bring a horse for him? Or Noah could—"

Santana shoots up to her feet, shaking her head as she exclaims, "No, _no_ , we're not asking more of Quinn! He cannot come Brittany!"

"He'll die if he stays here..." Brittany says quietly, pressing her finger down atop one of her snow horses. He melts beneath her fingertip.

"And _we'll die_ he if comes with us," Santana whispers, insistent and scared.

Brittany hates that she's made Santana sound so utterly terrified. She stands as well, quick to wrap the shivering woman in a tight embrace. Santana buries her face against Brittany's neck, her hands clutching to her back as if they've already tried to run and failed. Calmly, Brittany brushes a warm kiss to Santana's temple. "Do you know what day today is?" she asks gently.

"Um…the 21st or 22nd, I think?" Santana answers, unsure as she allows herself to meld against Brittany's body. How simply being in her arms like this takes the fears away Santana will never quite understand. But she's so thankful for it.

Brittany hugs her close. She'd a feeling it was getting that time. "It's almost Christmas."

_Christmas_. The word echoes in Santana's mind, thoughts instantly returning to the cheer upon Brittany's face whenever she'd speak of the holiday. It was never celebrated in her home, not in the lively way Brittany spoke of Christmas in Lima. She was lucky to receive a greeting from her Mother, let alone any such sentiment from her Father. She'd sit in her room on Christmas night, staring out the window at the snow-covered street, watching the families walk door-to-door exchanging good tidings and song. It all seemed so ridiculous and… and _worthless_ to her. Who'd ever wish to spend a night singing songs at a stranger's door?

Santana knows she'd be willing to till dawn now if only Brittany were to simply ask.

She pulls away just the fraction it takes to look up at the taller woman. "I promise you Brittany," she whispers. "Whatever it takes, we'll be gone from here before then."

* * *

"Spectacles."

Artie is both as unsurprised by _her_ sudden appearance as he is the term she's used to greet him.

"I've a name Miss Santana," he tells her, not once looking up from his work of mending one of the tables used to hold their meals. He can hear her shuffling behind him before her feet enter into the edge of his vision. "Though I doubt you'd care much for—"

"Stop talking, cripple," she snaps. "I'm here to offer you freedom."

At that Artie pokes his head out from beneath the table. He squints up at her, wondering aloud, "From what, exactly?"

She rolls her eyes. " _From this hell_ , obviously," she hisses down at him. She spares a look over her shoulder before crouching down to his level. "We've the means to manage a small party of us a way out. You included."

"That's… that's incredible!" Artie sputters, grinning broadly. "When? How?"

The glare Santana bores into him has any more questions stilling in his throat. "Speak any louder and the whole of camp will know!" she admonishes, groaning. "Christmas and the how is not of your concern. And frankly I am only asking as Bret wishes you to join us."

Artie smiles at her warmly and Santana feels need to pummel a few of the nails in his lap into the side of his head. "Please thank him for me," he tells her, genuinely touched. "Of course I wish to come… but there is another I can't go without."

Santana growls. " _No_ , no one else!"

"But he's my good friend and I assure you he'll be an asset!" Artie says, hoping to convince her for he truly cannot abandon David. They've been through hell together in this camp; his life saved more than once by the bigger man. "He can carry me and we'll not breathe a word of this to _anyone_ else. I swear it."

Santana knows he's right but nevertheless scowls at him as she says, "Just be ready when the times comes."

"The both of us you mean?" Artie asks, needing her to confirm. "We should _both_ be ready?"

"I regret ever coming here," she mutters to herself. She looks back to him, exasperated and furious. "Yes, the _god damned_ both of you."

"Thank you, Miss Santana! Truly, thank you!" Artie gushes, trying to scramble out from beneath the table to shake her hand, anything to show how grateful he truly is.

She backs away before he can even come close enough to touch her boot. He thankfully has the good sense to keep his mouth shut as she walks away. But Santana still feels she's just laid nooses about all their necks by inviting him anyway.

* * *

Quinn arrives late in the night, long after the last logs are put over the fire and Brittany succumbs to sleep from sheer boredom. She hastens in her steps as she nears the dying fire where her friends rest. As always she spots Noah first, he is most alert in his spot reclined against the usual tree. He's on his feet the moment his eyes lock upon her own.

Santana sits up from where she is sprawled along the ground soon after, expression relived now that Quinn's arrived. Though what little reprieve seeing her has brought quickly vanishes upon taking in the disheveled look about Quinn's person. Her usually-immaculate hair is a frayed disarray, cheeks and coat sleeves smudged with soot and dirt.

Noah helps her to sit, expression verging from concern to anger and back again so quickly it makes Quinn's head spin.

In rapid succession he asks her, "Has something happened? Someone hurt you? _Are_ you hurt? If anyone so much as _touched_ you I'll—"

Quinn's cheeks flush under the attention but she shakes her head, assuring him she's fine. "It's a bit of a disaster at camp right now is all," she tells them both. Neither Noah or Santana find solace in those words. Unrest in camp could surely not attest to such a state. They share a look of worry before turning back to Quinn. She sighs at the twin stares they fix upon her. "I swear it, both of you, I'm _fine_."

"Then what happened?" Noah asks.

"What a month of continuously shrinking rations will do to men tired of war and wishing to return home," Quinn tells them, brushing some of the dirt from off her dress. "One squabble turned into two, which turned into a brawl which, unfortunately, erupted into chaos."

"And you were in the center of it?" Santana asks, gauging her opinion upon Quinn's appearance now.

"I was nowhere near any of it," Quinn explains. " _This_ is from trying to keep the wounded from still lashing out at each other once in hospital beds."

"I mean this as no offense to you Quinn," Santana says. "But you Southerners are entirely mad."

Quinn grins. "The day I can call myself a Northern woman will be the happiest day of my damn life."

"I'm just happy you're all right," Noah says, relaxing now with the knowledge Quinn is unharmed. "We were real worried for you."

"Only you both, it seems," Quinn notes, spotting Brittany's boots peeking out from within the shelter.

"It must be well past midnight, Quinn," Santana tells her, affronted. "She tried staying awake."

"You take jokes _horridly_ ," Quinn deadpans. "Though I'm sure Noah and everyone upon this Earth with a brain has told you the same."

"See Santana," Noah boasts. "Quinn thinks me smart."

"Quinn thinks you've a _brain_ ," Santana corrects him. "Not one word was said about the intelligence it _supposedly_ holds."

Noah looks back toward Quinn, as if waiting for a rebuttal to Santana's words. Quinn gives him a shrug, comment quickly forgotten as she dives straight to the matter of her visit. "Seeing as we're running out of provisions soon I was thinking come another two weeks or so we could finally leave."

"A fortnight is too long," Santana answers, her gaze darting toward Brittany's boots. "It needs to be sooner."

Quinn purses her lips. "How much sooner?"

Santana locks eyes with her. "The 24th."

"W-what?" Quinn sputters, shocked. But Santana is clearly serious, her expression the grimmest Quinn's ever seen it. "That's too soon!"

"Have you enough?"

"Maybe? I don't know! I'd like more if possible but…" she trails off, momentarily counting all she's acquired within her head. She gives Santana a small, hopeful smile. "It _could_ suffice."

"Good," Santana tells her before also informing her, "Because we've two more coming."

This time Quinn's voice raises several octaves. "What?! Who've you told? _Santana_!" she exclaims with a growl, leaning toward the resolute woman. If Santana thinks the Southern men mad than it's clearly because she's oblivious to the lunacy within her own mind, Quinn thinks. "No, it's impossible. There's nowhere near enough for even the _dumbest_ of guard to turn his back with that many of us."

"Then whatever further he may ask of you," Santana admits quietly, resigned as her gaze drops down to the fire. "I'll…I'll consent."

Quinn's throat tightens, all her ire vanishing at Santana's softly spoke surrender. She looks up to Noah, hoping she's heard wrong. But she's not, for even he stares over at Santana in dismayed shock.

"Santana… you can't mean you'll—" he begins to say only to be drowned out by her curt reply.

"I said _whatever they ask_ ," she snarls, voice unhinged as she hugs her legs into her chest. "What's the day?"

"Tuesday. Why?" Quinn asks.

"The date, Quinn. What is the _date_?"

"The 23rd, if I recall."

"Tomorrow then," Santana implores. "We must leave _tomorrow_."

Quinn's expression softens as she scoots up to Santana's feet. Placing her hands over Santana's knees she beseeches of her, "Santana, see reason, you—"

Santana's eyes have begun to fill with tears as she looks back up at her. "We can't be here for Christmas, Quinn. _Please_."

"If what I have is not enough…"

"I told you I would _consent_ ," Santana says, choking upon her words. She swallows hard. "Don't make me say it aloud."

Quinn squeezes Santana's knees. "I don't want it to come to that either, but you're _pushing_ your luck with this."

"Then let's hope your guard is desperate and _stupid_ enough to accept your payoff."

Quinn reaches forward, wrapping Santana in as secure a hug as she's able. "We'll make it out of this war," she promises. Her eyes meet Noah's from over Santana's shoulder, pained still by Santana's disposition. She shakes her head slightly at him. _No,_ she wills for him to read upon her lips. _No one will hurt her_. He nods, understanding and grateful. "Have faith," she whispers, needing them both to hear her words.

They'll need all they can muster to pull this off.

* * *

**December 24th, 1862**

Brittany and Santana take a walk with Noah the next day, hoping to familiarize themselves with the spot Quinn has been using to sneak into the camp. The deadline is nearer to the tree line than elsewhere in the camp, but only by about a dozen yards. Hardly a large distance when compared to the hundred that separates them from the safety of forest cover.

They don't dare touch the faded wood of the fence, getting close enough to see the marks left behind by bullets in the past.

Brittany holds tighter to Santana's hand when she notices them.

"Thinkin' of wanting your blood spilled ta our ground?"

The hairs along the back of Santana's neck rise at the familiar voice. Brittany notices the hand twined with hers twitch ever so suddenly. She turns her head around, meeting the beady eyes of a Southern guardsman. She need not even ask, knowing forthright _this_ is the one who laid hand to Santana.

She tires to step forward; intent upon speaking her mind only for Santana to hold her firmly back.

" _No_ ," Santana whispers, keeping her gaze deftly held toward the trees. He will leave eventually, they just have to ignore whatever words he feels need to pathetically string together. No matter how much they irk and upset her. _We'll be gone soon_ , she reminds herself.

Noah though, cannot keep his own mouth shut now realizing the same as Brittany. "Does striking a woman make you feel more a man?" he demands, approaching the soldier without pause. "Where I hail from it makes you a _coward_."

"Noah," Santana hisses, reaching for him but he's long stepped from her range.

"I see you've two cocks already fightin' for ya, eh Pierce," the soldier chuckles.

Brittany's eyes widen, heart stopping as she fears her true self revealed. Her eyes meet Santana's, panic stricken, only to grow immediately perplexed by the calm contained within the open brown. How could Santana care so little for what he's just said? _How?!_ She wills her answer.

"Ignore him," Santana tells her, then finally turns upon her heel to grab hold of Noah. "Let's go," she says, dragging him from the soldier before anymore can be said.

"My offer still stands!" the guard hollers after them.

Santana swallows down the bile rising in her throat at his accompanying whistle.

Noah shakes free of Santana's hold once they're a good deal away, quickly rounding in front of her to demand, "What was that? Why did you haul us off? He deserved a good _verbal_ beating! I'm not stupid enough to punch him!"

She doesn't answer him, knowing he full well he can sort the reason out for himself.

Brittany though, she needs to speak with.

"What just happened, Santana? I thought he meant me but it was you? He called _you_ Pierce. I heard right, didn't I?" Brittany turns her gaze toward patient brown eyes, her confusion made clear in Santana's telling stare. "You… you've been using my name?" she asks, voice soft.

Santana gives her a small, shy nod.

Brittany squeezes her hand tight, unable to stop the large grin from spreading across her face.

If ever there was assurance that Lima would suffice, this is surely it.

"How can you be smiling Brittany?" Noah asks, feeling as though he is the only one still incensed by that encounter. "He _hit_ Santana!"

"I know and I'm right and mad," Brittany tells him, completely understanding of his judgment of her currently. "But San's right, we can't do nothing."

"I'm goin' to kill him! That's what!"

"And what will that bring us Noah?" Santana counters. "Aside from the swift nooses or, if we're lucky, swift bullets?"

His anger quickly dissipates at the truth in her words. "I just don't want him hurting you none again."

"I've not left either of your sides because of it," Santana tells him. "He's nothing but words now. Poor ones at that. And besides, we'll be gone from here soon."

No one argues with her on that.

They return back to their camp where Artie sits beside another man Santana thinks must be the friend he'd mentioned. The Northerner is all shoulders and neck, tall as he stands to shake Noah and Brittany's hand in greeting. He offers a shy smile as he takes hers, giving his name, "David," and a nod before sitting back down once more.

"We just wanted to thank you again, for allowing us along," Artie says by way of explaining their presence here so soon in the day. He withdraws from his pocket a handful of money. "I know it ain't so much but we're hoping it'll help in whatever way you see fit to use it." The stare he gives her at that is both telling and full of apology.

Santana can't help but wonder if he'll ever stop trying to apologize for that day.

"Thank you," she says after a moment, collecting the money into her coat pocket. "It may prove useful indeed."

"Should we stay here till it's time, or?" Artie asks, pointing back off toward center of camp.

Santana gives a nod, "Yes, go rest and get all the sleep you can before nightfall. Meet back here soon after."

"This is really happening, isn't it?" he asks, not expecting a response. He's excited, nervous and feeling sick all at once. David can't stop grinning as Santana gives them yet another nod.

"We'll see you all tonight, then," David says, his voice surprisingly quiet and yet kind. With little effort he arranges Artie up onto his shoulders, standing tall with the disabled man's legs held securely in his arms "Thank you again, Miss Santana."

They head off and not a minute later she feels a warm kiss being laid to the top of her head. "Yes, thank you," Brittany whispers to her.

Santana leans back against her, closing her eyes and hoping tonight is not her last upon this Earth.

* * *

No one can move from their spots scattered around the fire, each silent, eyes riveted to the flames and thoughts about the escape they are soon to undertake. Santana trembles in anticipation, Brittany's hand held tightly in her own doing little to quell the uprising of nerves in her gut. So much could go wrong… Quinn could still not have enough for the bribe. Would the guard even wish to have her? What if he desires Quinn instead? Would she be willing? Would Noah keep his wits long enough in that instance not to have them all killed? Or Brittany for that matter? She hasn't even told her…

She groans inwardly at the absurdity of her derailing thoughts. Yet the fear is still a very real possibility. _Anyone but the two from the mill,_ she pleads silently.

Brittany kisses her discreetly just at the bottom of her ear. "It's okay," she whispers softly, too quietly for anyone to hear aside from the ear it was meant for. No one even pays them an ounce of attention, too lost in their own thoughts of mortality. "Just don't let go, okay?"

Santana leans her head against the side of Brittany's, nodding despite the way her heart twists painfully in her chest. She squeezes tighter to Brittany's hand.

"I love you," Brittany tells her for what feels the hundredth time just this hour alone. It never fails to warm Santana's heart and bring the slightest of smiles to the corner of her lips.

" _I love you too_ ," she always tells her, even despite the meek and cracking cadence of her tone.

Quinn comes a few hours past the dead of night. Brittany pulls Santana up to shaky feet, draping the blanket around them snuggly and never once letting go of her hand. The group is quick to extinguish their fire and follow Quinn down the stream and back toward the nearest deadline. David carries Artie upon his back, steps somehow lighter than Noah's even given the extra weight.

"You've no idea how lucky you are to have picked tonight," Quinn tells Santana as they hastily make their way forward. "The regiment is mustering to head West _right now_."

"Another fight?" Santana asks, glad for the distraction.

"This time with those they're _supposed_ to be engaging," Quinn explains quietly. "They'll be to Murfreesboro by dawn light."

"What does this mean for us?" Noah asks, confused as to how a battle could help them with their escape.

His answer comes in way of the horse Quinn has left tied to a deadline post beside a rather agitated and nervous looking Southern guard.

"The cavalry left the ones they felt unfit for the battlefront. I managed to sneak him away when everyone was running about readying," she grins, proud for having managed to steal the most worthwhile thing of all. Brittany walks up to the large mare, smiling gently at the horse as she runs a hand down its warm brown neck.

"You snuck _her_ away," Brittany corrects, scratching just under the horse's jaw. "This one's a she."

"Whatever she is, you all need to be _gettin'_ " the guard snaps at them, motioning for them to head toward the tree line. "If our boys come round like they're supposed to in a minute—"

"We're leaving," Quinn tells him, sliding her haversack from off her back and shoving it into the guard's hands. "As promised."

He tears open the canvas flap, grinning at the contents stuffed tightly inside. Noah manages to see at least a month's worth of cornmeal packages, dried meat and a tin of coffee before the guard slings the pack over his back. Quinn has more than lived up to her word. Santana has never looked more relieved.

Brittany unties the horse from the deadline and with Santana's hand still held within her own she brings the mare over to David and Artie. "I think she might be a little easier to ride," she tells them, positioning the horse right beside them.

"Here Artie," David says, hoisting Artie up onto the horse's back. His legs hang loosely at the mare's sides but within a few seconds both Brittany and David manage to secure his feet into the stirrups.

"Stop dwadlin'!" the Southern guard urges in a whisper.

Quinn and Noah are already a few yards ahead when Brittany gives a gentle yank on the horse's reins and leads her forward. She's too afraid to quicken her pace, so sure a brisk trot on such a quiet night would alert more Southern guards to their position. Santana continuously takes furtive glances over her shoulder to ensure the same, eyes darting in every which way across the snow-dusted field in search of even the slightest movement. She feels a sitting duck, a large sitting duck now beside an equally large horse.

"Almost there," Brittany whispers, pulling Santana closer against her side. They can just start to distinguish the trees from one another, safety only but a brisk minute's walk ahead.

They only make it a couple yards more when the sound of gunfire breaks into the night air.

The horse cries out loudly and what Santana thinks is a bullet hitting her shoulder turns out to be the reins that are whipped free from Brittany's hand.

"Run!" Quinn screams out from ahead just as another two shots pierce through the field.

Santana's heart races as she wills her legs into a sprint. The horse crosses her path, rearing with Artie desperately clinging to her back, obviously spooked by the loud rifle rounds.

Brittany pulls her back just before the horses massive legs can come down upon her head. They fall to the ground, her head colliding against Brittany's collarbone. Noise explodes around her not a second afterward, drowning out whatever words Brittany shouts to her deafened ear. She's lost in a torrent of noise and snow, her heart pounding loudest of all.

The horse lets out another cry as she rears to her hind legs and Artie is thrown from her back. There's the sickening crunch of bone as hoof meets leg. Santana's riveted to the ground, unable to move, watching in a blur as Brittany calls to the frightened creature, her plea's desperate for the horse to calm.

David's gargled shout fills her head as a bullet rips through his throat.

He crashes down to the ground beside her, eyes wide and lifeless, blood staining the snow a deep red. She scoots away from him in a panic, hands tripping upon a hidden divot in the field. Her back meets cold ground once more with a hard smack.

" _Santana_!" She can hear Noah screaming for her from the tree line.

She scrambles to rise to her feet, anxious to find Brittany, only to have a hand yank her back down to the ground. She twists within the strong hold and comes face to face with Artie.

"Stay down!" he tells her, frantically pointing back toward the deadline. There's a trail of blood in the snow from where he's pulled himself over, clearly his leg that was smashed beneath the horse's hooves. His face is pale, whitening more with every second that passes. He's already dead in her eyes. There's no saving him.

There's no saving _them_.

She can still hear the horse whining loudly into the night and snaps her head in the direction of her cries, relieved to see Brittany alive still trying to calm the beast.

She tries to stand and again Artie holds her down, weaker this time.

"Please, Santana," he pleads with her. "He made me promise… not to let…you get up…"

Santana stares at him, understanding of his words but not believing Brittany able to have imparted them. Not like this! _She must have though_ … Brittany could never let a horse suffer such a fate, not if she could stop it. And with the bullets flying overhead it is safest on the ground.

Santana feels her stomach clenching, wishing to empty to the snow.

The gunshots blare louder in her working ear. Guards are approaching fast. Santana focuses past Artie's shoulder toward them. She counts two of them, her heart stopping as familiar gaunt silhouettes register within her mind. The mill men.

" _SANTANA_!" Noah hollers, desperate. " _BRET_!"

"I've got her!" Brittany shouts, quickly turning the horse toward the far open field and away from her fallen friends. Another gunshot blasts into the air, the bullet quick to imbed into the mare's hind. She lets out a deafening whine, her head thrown back with pain as she whips in Brittany's direction and sends her hurtling down to the ground several feet away.

"Got 'im!" one of the guards exclaims, breathless as he makes his way across the field.

Santana spares a look down toward Artie, an apology in her eyes before she wretches free of his hold and scrambles low across the ground to Brittany's side. The horse's footsteps fade down across the field as she hurries to try and help Brittany back up to her feet. A bullet whizzes just past her head, sending a shudder down her spine.

"I told him to keep you down," Brittany says, dazed as Santana hauls her up against her side.

There's a scream from the tree line, " _NO_!"

And then a kick lands square into her lower back.

She's thrown down to the ground along with Brittany, body instantly covered with snow. A boot presses hard into her shoulders, keeping her pinned as the unpleasant feel of a heated rifle end is pressed against the back of her head.

"Attemptin' to leave us now, are ya?" the guard asks, smacking his lips as he spits out a portion of the tobacco in his mouth.

"You an your husband 'ere?" the other says in similar position above Brittany. Her eyes find Santana's, clear and wide. Terrified. "He ain't so much. Real skinny feller huh."

"Bet 'is dick is real skinny too," the guard hisses, leaning down closer. "I'll fill ya up better 'en he ever will."

Brittany lets out a snarl, thrashing underneath the hold of her guard. " _Don't touch her!_ "

Santana shakes her head as much as she's able, pleading silently for Brittany to stop. She's never seen blue eyes so enraged, nor so full of tears.

Another gunshot echoes across the field, quieter than the rifle rounds. The guard to Brittany's back chokes before falling back, dead, the coat over his chest quickly pooling with blood. Before Brittany can even move another gunshot follows, this time the guard atop Santana collapses to her side.

Santana stares, stunned at the small bullet hole buried into his temple.

Brittany pulls her away with a hard tug, hugging her close as she presses desperate kisses across her face and jaw. They're still sat in the snow as the crunch of feet into the ice meets their ears. One pair of boots stops beside them, another two still rushing over.

Brittany never wants to let go Santana, so unwilling to even now. She dare not look up.

Santana does, stunned to find Stanley standing just above them, pistol in hand. She doesn't think she's ever missed him more than she does this very moment.

"You best get up," he says, tone his usual detached void. He prods her with a push of his boot.

Noah and Quinn arrive just as she's helping Brittany up to her feet. Noah's arms instantly wrap around both woman as he breathes words of relief against their heads.

"Let's go, before more come round," Stanley tells them, motioning with his pistol for them to head back toward the tree line.

Quinn looks as if she wants to say something to him but holds back as his stony expression turns upon her. Without word he points again toward the safety of cover.

"Artie?" Brittany asks as Santana takes firm hold of her hand.

Santana spares a look over her shoulder. His body lies motionless in the snow just a few yards off. She gives a shake of her head, squeezing Brittany's hand. Noah picks up the fallen saddlebag from the ground, slinging it over his shoulder as they quickly make their way to the trees. He watches closely as Quinn takes furtive looks from the corner of her eye to Stanley, unable to make out the expression in her gaze. Stanley's own expression is set in a mask of agitated indifference. The only sign of his anger is expressed in the tight line of his now cleanly-shaven jaw.

He gives a push to Santana's back, hurrying her forward as they pass the first few trees of the outlying forest. They don't stop until the camp field is shrouded from sight.

At which point Stanley explodes. "What are you doing here, Quinn?! What are you hopin' for?"

"I don't know!" Quinn shouts back, still so confused by his sudden appearance. She's torn between thanking him and meeting the fire in his voice with her own biting words. As she stares up at him, she realizes he's probably been following her all night. It is so like him to keep checks upon her like this. She sighs. "I don't… I just can't be _here_ anymore."

"So you're deserting?" he demands. "That's your answer?"

In the distance, the faint sounds of the camp coming to life carries into the trees. More guards will have already found their fallen comrades. They'll be sure to search the tree line soon. They are sure to find them. "Quinn, we need to go," Santana whispers urgently to her.

Stanley points his pistol at Santana's chest. "She's not goin' anywhere with _you_."

Brittany moves in front of her. Noah is quick to join her side.

"You think I won't shoot you boy?" Stanley asks her, laughing. "Or you, _Puckerman_?"

" _Bret_ , please," Santana pleads, reaching for Brittany's hand.

"Quinn wants to come home with us," Brittany tells Stanley, voice firm. "You could come too," she offers.

"I'm not a _traitor_ ," Stanley spits out with a scowl.

"Please Stanley, put the pistol down at least," Quinn beseeches.

His eyes meet hers, softening ever so slightly. He doesn't lower the gun. "You never wanted…" his voice wavers, catching as he speaks. He leaves the rest left unsaid, face heating even admitting such in front of these people. _Of course she'd not want you_ , he thinks bitterly to himself.

Quinn shakes her head slowly. "I'm so sorry."

Santana slowly turns her head toward Quinn, boring a hole through the side of her head with the heat of her glare. A heartbroken man holds a gun pointed to their chests and she feels _this_ is the time to be turning down his affections? Knowing better than to say a word of protest, Santana silently seethes by Quinn's side. She'll settle with smacking her to hell and back if they survive this.

The pistol in Stanley's hand shakes in time with the tremors of his arms. His lips purse, breath held sharply as he wills himself to do what must be done for the better of the Confederacy. He grits his teeth, finger just pressing against the trigger.

Brittany reaches back, fumbling for Santana's hand. Their fingers twine quickly, shouts of Southern guards approaching in the nearby field.

Stanley fires off a shot with a pained holler.

Bark explodes out in a small array from the nearest tree at their side.

"Go on then," Stanley says, backing away. He fires again, this time at an opposite tree.

Santana throws her arms around Brittany, hugging her from behind. Quinn ignores them, stepping forward toward Stanley only to stop when he fires off his last bullet into the tree branch beside her head.

" _Go_!" Stanley cries out, far more emotion strained into his voice than Quinn feels he's ever shown.

Santana need not be told twice. Ensuring Brittany's hand will not slip from her own with the quivers they both fight to control, they take off toward the thickest of trees. They stop when Noah and Quinn's footsteps don't follow at their backs.

Quinn is still staring at Stanley, the look upon her face lost to all except the man so unwilling to meet her eye. She says nothing though, not even when Noah takes her gently by the arm and tugs her away.

Together, the four run off into the trees, disappearing from Stanley's sight.

He collapses to bended knee just as a dozen or so Southern guards make it into the tree line.

When they ask which direction the group has fled, he feels a sense of loss and pride as he points them toward the wrong compass bearing.

* * *

They run until their legs are about to collapse and their lungs burn from the cold. Brittany is the first to start feeling the pain, weeks of bed rest leaving her winded after only a few short minutes. She bends, hands clutching her knees as she tries to draw air deep into her stinging chest. A fit of coughs overcomes her and Santana is right at her side, urging her up.

"Just a bit farther, Britt," she tells her, wrapping an arm behind Brittany's back.

Brittany wheezes, shaking her head as another more forceful cough rips out from her throat.

"Here," Noah says, scooping her up into his arms. She's lighter than ever before, but his legs still protest the added weight, arms straining to hold her steady against him.

"Is she all right?" Quinn asks, worried for the way Brittany curls into his chest. She pales. "Was she _shot_?"

"No," Santana tells her quickly, eliciting a heavy sigh of relief from Quinn. "She's exhausted, it's only been a few days since the last of her fever went."

"We should be far enough now to slow," Noah says, craning his neck behind him to look through the trees. His eyes catch upon their footprints, stomach sinking. "The snow," he catches Santana's eye and nods down to ground.

Without word Santana pulls the blanket off from over her shoulders. She and Quinn take a side each and retrace their path, dusting the blanket over the snow as they hurry to hide their tracks.

"They've hounds you know," Quinn mentions quietly as they work. "This won't matter."

Santana doesn't stop. "If it spares us even an hour it is worth it."

Once enough of their steps have been covered they walk back toward Noah, careful to ensure the new ones they make are wiped away as well. Brittany is shivering in his arms and Santana instantly slips free from her coat to drape it across Brittany's body.

"San…" Brittany whispers, trying to push the coat away.

Santana tucks it around her snuggly.

"I'll be fine," she says by way of reply when both Noah and Quinn give her looks of concern. She throws the blanket over her shoulders, suppressing the chill that encompasses her. The ice is quick to melt upon meeting the heat of her body. It won't provide her much warmth she knows, but at least she will be moving. Brittany needs the coat more.

They stand staring into the surrounding trees, each unsure of which direction to head next.

"North," Brittany mumbles, motioning tiredly toward the right as she leans her head against Noah's shoulder. Her legs ache and head won't stop spinning. She feels like retching.

Quinn rolls her eyes. "Yes, _obviously_ we are to head North. Let us work out which way that is."

Brittany manages to open her eyes enough to send Quinn a peeved look. Using the last of her strength she points more obviously to the right. " _North_."

Quinn doesn't dare allow herself to turn in Santana's direction, already knowing the disbelieving glare the woman must have set upon her.

"I can't believe you doubt her," Santana mutters to Quinn as Noah leads them ahead. "She's a _courier_."

"How was I to know?" Quinn snaps back. "She hasn't exactly been _here_ this past month."

"She's _better_ now," Santana retorts.

"I cannot believe we are arguing after just surviving the _worst night of my existence_."

"This hardly counts for hardship," Santana says as she crosses her arms tightly over her chest. "None of us are hurt. We're _lucky_."

"Two of your men _died_!"

"They knew the risk!"

"Have you no heart!"

"Stop fighting!" Brittany shouts to them both, hoarse. She breathes heavily, slumping once more in Noah's arms.

For a while neither woman at Noah's back says a word. The quiet of the forest surrounds them, more apparent now with everything silenced beneath a thick layer of snow. It lulls Brittany into a state of half-awareness. Both Santana and Quinn are right, in their own ways, she thinks. But Quinn's last accusation was far uncalled.

"San's good," she says, wishing her voice were stronger.

"She is," Noah affirms, sparing a pointed look back at Quinn.

Quinn has the decency to know when she's being fairly berated. The blush upon her cheeks attests to her acceptance. She feels need to speak her mind anyway. The events have barely caught up with her, just beginning to reform in her mind. The feelings though, those more than strike her hard. "You didn't have to watch it all unfold, Santana" she admits quietly, hands stuffed deep into the pocket of her coat. Her eyes remain upon her feet as they walk onward. "I've never felt more useless. You were just _lying_ there and Brittany was… she came _so_ close to dying like those two men."

Santana steps closer, walking at her side. "It was better you and Noah stayed in the trees."

"I held him _back_ , Santana," Quinn says, voice thick with unshed tears. "He wanted to run out for you both… I … he would have _died_."

Santana threads her arm through Quinn's, locking her elbow against the other woman's. "Thank you for keeping him safe," she whispers. "For everything."

Quinn sniffles, leaning into Santana's side, glad when she doesn't pull away.

No more is said as they continue through the forest. They've a long ways to go till home yet.


	22. Road Home, Part II

Brittany was ten the first time she snuck out from her window to escape the summer heat which seemed to smother her in her bed. Emily hadn't been born yet, her mother's belly was swollen with the imminent arrival of the youngest Pierce. She could hear her father's snores from down the hall, exhausted from another day's worth of twice his normal labor now that his wife was bedridden upon Dr. Nelson's orders. Brittany was herself tired from having to help him carry out her mother's chores about the farm, but she was also far too excited about soon becoming a sister to feel truly wearied. But the heat! That was more than tiresome. She remembers thinking she didn't have to be so quiet as she tumbled out from her window ledge and landed sprawled on her back with a loud thump into the grass below. They'd never hear her leaving over the loud ruckus her father was making.

The humid night air outside felt no better upon her cheeks than it did from within her bedroom, but she wasn't interested in merely just _being_ outdoors. She'd a goal, naturally, one that involved wadding neck-deep into the lake water until the sweat from her body was gone and the itch against the back of her thighs disappeared.

She never anticipated it becoming habitual, but after her mother's death it was an especially needed escape. It was more than the heat she ran from on those nights; Emily's cries were just as piercing as the memory of the woman no longer there to care for her. Sometimes the mere thought of another day to come without her mother was enough to bring tears she'd thought had long since dried back to her eyes. There was an ever-present ache in her chest that grew bigger with each new morn. Sometimes she feared the hole carved into her heart would never mend, just as her father's eyes would never fill with happiness again. She'd hide deep within her blankets, uncaring that she'd surely sweat straight through her nightclothes, the sheets and the mattress beneath. She just wanted her mother to return. For her family to be _right_ again.

From down the hall in her parents' room, Emily would cry harder, prompting a string of hollered curses from Hendrick. He was so very tired… and still so distraught. Brittany knew nothing of caring for a child; it wasn't the same as tending to the animals. She couldn't pick up Emily as she would a piglet; a fact her father quickly scolded her for when she tired. Placing hay in her crib was also not a means to calm her, likewise with Lord Tubbington. Hendrick would shout at her, mostly in Dutch, and with words Brittany had not yet learned, but she could feel the hurt layered within them. Sometimes his anger was so palpable she could feel it clenching her throat, her breaths falling short as she stumbled away from him.

She'd run to the lake on those nights, diving straight into the water in hopes it would erase all the days memories as easily as it washed the dirt from her skin. She missed her mother desperately. She didn't understand how it could be that her father still stood and yet seemed to have gone with her Ma as well. Is that how death worked? It took a little bit of everyone else away too?

Hours could be spent on any given night that summer just simply staring up into the dark sky, letting the cool lake water wash over her skin whilst she focused her thoughts heavenward in prayers and pleas to her mother.

_Let Emily not cry anymore._

_Let Pa find where he lost his heart._

_Let us all be all right._

She thinks of those nights now, even fatigued as she is slumped in Noah's arms. The night sky above is the same as the one over the lake, a slightly different canvas spotted with the same stars. Her mother is still there, she knows, still watching over them all. She whispers a silent thanks to her now. They'd made it from that field by miracle and chance alone.

So impossible a feat it had seemed at the time.

Just as impossible as life had felt that summer so long ago. When she was sure her future was to be riddled with nothing more than unhappiness. It wasn't until the following summer that she saw her father smile for the first time since her mother's death. She'd laid a cluster of freshly-picked daisies beside Emily; the smell of her soiled linen cloth was finally too much to bear. Before she could even utter an apology for breaking the rule of lying anything in Emily's crib he pulled her into a hug, the first in such a long time. She cried against him, so thrilled for her prayers having finally been answered.

She'd no reason to sneak to the lake anymore after that, but it was her place of solace and she knew her mother could hear here from there. When Emily was old enough, and the summer nights too hot, they would run out across the fields together once they were sure Hendrick was fast asleep. A few hours beneath the moonlight spent swimming in the lake was the greatest adventure that could be had to the youngest Pierce. She'd run with Brittany, always struggling to keep up with her sister's longer and more assured strides. Brittany would keep eye out for her from over her shoulder; the grin she wore always relayed encouragement with just the tiniest hint of mischief in the way it curled toward the right.

They'd stop to rest somewhere in-between their farm and the lake where the trees were just thin enough for the stars to shine through the leaves above. Owls would rest perched high in the branches, watching them from a safe distance. Brittany constantly apologized to them for the intrusion, knowing their appearance had probably sent the birds' evening meal scampering off elsewhere. The owls would tilt their heads down at her, almost fully around on one or more occasions. Brittany would twist herself best she could in turn, wondering aloud why it was they stared at her so oddly.

She remembers how Emily would laugh whenever she did so, so loud and full of so much life.

How much it made her believe they'd always be so happy.

She's starting to forget what that laugh sounds like, how warm it used to make her feel.

She's so very cold.

She yearns for a summer night spent lounging in refreshing lake water. For Emily's laughter carrying down from the banks and Santana's hand twined with hers as they drift across the calm waters.

From over Noah's shoulder she can see Santana walking just a few paces behind. Her gaze has dropped, shoulders hunched as she hugs the blanket closely around her. Amidst the falling snow and endless black sky she looks so small. Brittany wishes she could walk beside her, wrap the coat over her shoulders and pull her close. Santana would give her that smile she seems to have reserved only for her, the one with just the slightest softening near the corners of her lips; equal parts smitten and reassured.

She doesn't smile now, lips trembling from the cold. Her gaze is focused down, eyes shrouded beneath thick lashes and the bits of snow melting against their tips. She wills Santana to look up, a silent plea in the gaze sent her way. _Please, San_ , Brittany thinks, _please look at me_.

_We'll have summers far from here soon._

Quinn's attention is upon her, though, and with a gentle nudge against Santana's side tired brown eyes finally lock upon her own. And there, just starting to form, is that smile. It's subdued this time, barely a twitch of her lips but Brittany catches it nonetheless. _We're all right_ , she thinks, hoping that somehow Santana can hear her thoughts.

It's a silly presumption, she knows, for only trained magicians and circus folk are ever able to communicate in such a fashion. Santana's smile widens just a smidgen more. " _Love you,_ " she mouths.

Brittany's eyes never once leave Santana's as she relaxes her chin atop Noah's shoulder. She can feel her muscles growing limp in time with the stirrings of flutters now taking residence in her stomach. Her eyelids grow heavy once more, body fighting to remain awake just a moment longer.

"Hang on Britt," Noah whispers to her, voice strained with fatigue as well.

She nods, even as her eyes fall close.

Santana gives a sigh as she watches Brittany's head fall back against Noah's shoulder. She hopes she recovers soon, or at the very least that they find a place to rest come morn where they can curl against one another to ward off the cold. She feels as if they've walked miles. Her legs grew sore hours earlier, now merely numb from frost and exertion. The occasional breeze against the nape of her neck sends a shiver down her spine, imagination rendering it akin to the breath of a Southern soldier at her back. She finds herself taking furtive glances over her shoulder, eyes scanning the darkened fields for signs of life. When no movement is to be found she hugs the blanket draped around her closer. There is no one following them, not a soul lingering in the woods. Despite the brief calm it brings her she fears for the threat of Southern presence anyway.

How Brittany could steal such a smile from her with the simplest look she'll never quite understand. Especially when the rest of her feels so coiled with anxiety for their safety.

Quinn is right; the Southerners have hounds more than capable of tracing their path even without the added aid of footprints visible in the snow. It is only a matter of time before they're caught if they aren't able to put a great deal more distance between them and the Mill camp. Finding a road would prove useful. They'd have to walk a ways away from it of course, lest they be seen by any of the more loyal of Southern countrymen. But come the dawn hours perhaps a barter can be waged with a passing carriage driver for safe travel into the nearest town to the North. They'd cover more distance and regain their waning strength. It's a fleeting hope of a thought though, for Santana need only see the blue of Noah and Brittany's slacks to know they'll never be granted such a favor, not whilst still in Northern uniform.

And what could they ever offer in exchange for such blatant disregard of Southern law?

A few measly morsels of dried meat and cornmeal from the saddlebag? Hardly a worthwhile endeavor, even for the hungriest of drivers.

Her stomach groans for what feels the thousandth time and she ignores the worried stare Quinn focuses her way. She'll eat right and proper soon enough, in Lima, with Brittany and the Pierces. Where cold nights like this one will be spent wrapped in wool with Brittany beside a warm fire —and yes, if she's really honest about it, those thoughts _only_ involve the wool as cover but she's as likely to tell Quinn this as Quinn is to suddenly draw a pistol and march them straight back to the Mill camp. Her gaze darts down to Quinn's coat pocket anyway.

It's empty of course. She feels guilty for ever having allowed the doubt to cross her mind. She's a friend in Quinn. Owes everything to her. The 'thank you' Santana spoke hours before hardly feels sufficient but they've not said anything since then and Quinn seems lost deep in thought. They are troubled thoughts, by the look of the crease forming over her brow.

They can talk later, when each of them has rested and their voices are no longer silenced in the dark night.

Another trail of wind coils through the surrounding trees, chiller than the last. It nips at Santana's cheeks and she finds herself moving nearer to Quinn for warmth. Quinn may as well be formed from a brick of ice herself with the dismal amount of heat radiating from her body. She's grateful though when this time it is Quinn who relinks their arms. The small smile accompanying the move is both reserved and promising. Quinn is trying, in whatever capacity she can, to be what she believes is a good friend.

No matter how awkward Santana finds the other woman's actions most the time.

They walk until the first rays of dawn light begin to stretch across the horizon. It's a frigid march, ever so slow with the stops they must continuously make to clear their footsteps from heavier snowdrifts and to allow Noah a moment to stretch his aching muscles. He never complained once about having to carry Brittany and, thankfully, after a few hours she was able enough to join them. Their pace slowed considerably with her back upon her feet, but if anyone minded no one voiced their thought aloud. She stuck close to Santana's side, their hands clasped beneath the blanket wrapped around them both.

It was the one reassurance each had that they would make it home.

Brittany guided them by light of the stars, particularly the one Burt had taught her could always lead her to safety. She'd forgotten the name of it; they always did give her trouble. But it is unmistakable in a clear winter night sky. "If ever you should find yourself lost on the roads come nightfall," she remembers Burt telling her. "Find this star and it won't steer you wrong."

She hopes, with all her heart, that he is all right. The first thing she will do upon returning home is pen him a letter straight away. Him and Michael. She needs to know they're okay. _They must be_ , she tells herself. _And they're probably sick with worry over us all._

She'll write them both and let them know they're all safe.

They all made it.

And in a week's time she can tell them by Emily's side.

Brittany smiles.

They truly are going home.

It's been such a far-off thought for so long she can hardly believe it's happening now. She'd think this all a vivid and torturous dream if she didn't know otherwise. How cruel it would be to wake now and find herself back at the Mill camp, sick with fever still and arm riddled with infection. How much longer could Santana have continued to care for her? Would she have even made it through the winter without Quinn's aid? Would Noah have continued to keep them all from harm?

They are pointless thoughts, she knows, especially now that the past is so far behind them. But they crawl into her mind, reminding her they've barely made it through the night let alone the coming week. And until their feet are upon Northern soil there is a great deal more separating them from home than simply distance. She's not the supplies Burt always equipped her when she made her journey's between the telegraph stations. No map, even though she never actually used them aside from kindling fires on occasion. Probably no matches for that matter!

She wishes she could send word to her Pa, for she feels soon may be a ways off. She's still thinking of what she would say to him when they finally come across a road. It's barely worth calling a road; just two tracks flattened against the dead grass from a carriage path. A decision is quickly made to follow it as far North as it will go. It will be sure to lead them to a town eventually, where hopefully they may find a bed to rest upon, or at the very least clothes to steal from dry-lines so Brittany and Noah may not be spotted by uniform alone.

It would not do well for their escape to be for naught over the color of their shirts and slacks.

The road leads a long ways before a small farm comes into sight. It's nothing save for a rickety barn beside a tiny one-bedroom home. Smoke pours out from the chimney as they approach, someone clearly in residence. Quinn contemplates simply striding up to the door and begging of a place to sleep but relents upon seeing the Southern flag pinned proudly to the outpost near the road.

There would be no welcome for them in this home, no matter the elaborate lies they spin in their favor.

The next farm proves a better option, the owners clearly having abandoned their barn to the elements years ago. The house sits further from the rotting barn, shutters clasped over old windows. They don't dare risk peeking inside, instead moving back to ensure the barn is empty of life.

It's teeming with cows.

Quinn lets out a groan. "We can't sleep _here_. Let's see if there's another farm along the carriage way."

"This one is perfect though," Brittany says, confused as to why everyone has started to follow Quinn back out. "No one will be coming today."

"And how are you to know that? For all we know they just haven't woken yet!"

Brittany bristles, affronted, but calmly tells Quinn anyway, "They've left enough feed for them to go at least a day or two by themselves. You don't pen your cattle like this unless you won't be around to care for them. Especially in this cold."

" _Obviously_ , Quinn," Santana asserts.

Brittany doesn't dare mention that not a second before Santana was more than following in Quinn' footsteps. She's glad for the support now, however ill-timed. They are all in desperate need of sleep.

Quinn relents, too tired to argue. They climb up into the sole loft and head for a corner as far removed from the sounds and smell of the cattle as can be. Brittany doesn't mind, instantly settling down into a fresh pile of hay. She feels home already.

The others join her soon after, Santana to her left, Noah and Quinn at her right. Above her there's a skylight, though really just a portion of the roof that's collapsed from neglect. The sun warms her cheeks as it begins to pass overhead, her body relaxing further against the hay pile.

"Soon we'll be doing this in your barn," Santana whispers against her ear, threading their fingers together. "Where hopefully it smells far better."

Brittany smiles, tightening their hold. "I promise, it does."

Quinn sits up not a second later, unable to rest even given the exhaustion weighing her down. They've such a long way to go yet and no design on how to go about getting there. They need sleep yes, but she also needs her mind put at ease before she can do so. Santana's stomach grumbles loudly in the loft, a feat given the noise the cattle make below. Quinn watches her roll up onto her side, legs curling as she tucks herself nearer to Brittany. She needs to eat yet Quinn knows the saddlebag is hardly filled with enough food for them all to last the journey. _If only the other had also fallen from the horse,_ she bemoans _._ She hopes the one Noah wears across his shoulders is the one she packed with more.

"Noah, could you hand me the bag?" She asks.

"Do you need it now? Because I'd really like to not move until the New Year comes," he tells her, tired and spent.

Quinn stares at him, appalled for a moment and when it becomes apparent he's serious she begins tugging on the strap. "We have to sort what we have, ration things, the usual stuff one does when _an escaped prisoner on the run_."

"Do as she says, Noah," Santana intones, equally tired and yet unwilling to offer more in way of help from where she rests against Brittany.

Quinn lets go of the strap with a snap and Noah twists to his side, moaning at the sting rendered against his chest. "Am I the only one here who cares about what's happening?" she all-but-shrieks.

The cows below bellow in chorus at the strange new voice.

Santana feels Quinn is on the verge of a mild, though needless, panic attack. She wishes to say something to calm her and is more than surprised when Brittany speaks up before she can.

"Stop shouting, Quinn," Brittany tells her, annoyed. "You'll rile all the cows."

"Good!" Quinn snaps. "Then at least someone else will be riled with me!"

"Shh!" Brittany hushes her.

"Yeah, you're _riling_ the bovine," Santana remarks.

Brittany turns her glare upon Santana, upset. "Don't use that word, it's offensive."

Santana is stunned. Stunned and utterly baffled. " _What_?"

"Bovine, it's insulting. Like calling someone stupid," Brittany explains she peeks down over the railing, giving a sigh as she watches the cows shuffle along together. "They can't help being cows. We don't have to make them feel worse about it."

"I'm sorry?" Santana offers, still perplexed by Brittany's reasoning.

Brittany smiles at her, knowing full well Santana has no clue why she's even apologizing. She didn't quite expect Santana to understand the inner turmoil of a cow's lacking intelligence anyway. It's something she'll have to teach her in Lima. She also tries to ignore the clench in her gut when she thinks about how long it will take them to get there. So instead, her focus shifts back to Quinn. "It was _your_ idea to stop and sleep here," she points out.

Quinn's lips thin into a hard line.

Santana challenges her with a raise of one eyebrow.

" _Fine_ ," Quinn grits out. "Let us all _sleep_ then. Though how any of you can without knowing what's to come when we wake I'll never understand."

"I'll sort rations with you, Quinn," Noah says as she picks himself up enough to slip the saddlebag from over his shoulders. "If it'll help you sleep. This shouldn't take too long right?"

Quinn shakes her head, giving him a small smile in thanks.

Santana can hear them sorting through the supplies and wants to roll her eyes at how easily Noah yielded to Quinn's insistence. _Another Stanley for her to twine about her fingers_ , she thinks. She feels a chill recalling how soon ago it just was they stood in line of his pistol. Had he let them go only to come hunt them down later? Would she wake to his gun pressed against her temple as she had so many nights before arriving at the Mill camp? The thoughts don't cease at that; more of them crash down upon her with unexpected force.

Everything was such a blur in the field, and yet slowed, time seeming to want her to both erase and burn the images to her mind. She doesn't recall anything after the first shot was fired, not until Dave's body fell to the ground beside her and his once-panicked eyes dimmed within the span of a breath. She can still feel the imprint of Artie's hand around her arm, her skin growing hot at the memory. Her heart slams hard against her chest recalling the look in Brittany's eyes as they were forced down the ground. How terrified she was…

Quinn at least has a distraction afforded to her, however dull organizing their stock of supplies may be. She has a focus to keep her thoughts from the ones Santana cannot rid from her mind. It could very well have been her thrown from atop that frightened horse. Those guards could have easily pulled their triggers… It could have been Brittany's lifeless eyes beside her instead of David's.

"San?" Brittany calls for her, anxious when she feels a strong tremor rock Santana's body.

Santana breathes in sharply, eyes boring square into Brittany's own as she asks of her the only question she's fraught for an answer, _"Why did you tell Artie to hold me down_?"

Brittany brings a calm hand up to rest against Santana's cheek. She watches as Santana swallows past something which seems to have wedged itself in her throat. Softly, she strokes her thumb against Santana's cheek, easing just a fraction of the hurt in brown eyes. "Because I knew you'd try to get up and come for me," Brittany whispers, eyes unapologetic. "She was scared Santana. You remember that day I met you? When the horse broke my shoulder?"

There's the smallest of nods from Santana, recalling that day.

"It's all I could think of," Brittany tells her, sliding nearer. "If I had let her go she might have _hurt_ you. Broken your leg or… or worse. I _needed_ to get her away from you."

Santana holds tight to Brittany's wrist, heart wrenching painfully in her chest for she hadn't even thought Brittany was keeping the horse at bay for her sake.

"I'm not sorry for what I did and I am upset Artie and David had to die but I'm… I'm _glad_ it was them instead of you," Brittany admits softy. "I feel terrible saying so."

"Don't," Santana tells her before anymore guilt can cross her face. "I'd feel the same."

"We're okay," Brittany smiles shakily.

"We are." Santana slides forward until their foreheads press against one another. "Merry Christmas, Britt."

The smile that breaks out across Brittany's face at those words seems worth all the heartache the night has brought. "Merry Christmas, Santana," Brittany breathes out as she closes the space separating them with a kiss.

From just a few feet away, Quinn sees it all.

* * *

_**December 25** _ _**th** _ _**1862** _

The afternoon sky is soon to grow dark and Quinn still has no idea how to broach what she witnessed with Santana. Her sleep was bereft of her usual dreams, instead filled with scenarios of this very moment. She can still feel the sting in her cheek from one such dream. She only hopes her imagined version of Santana has a stronger hand than the one walking beside her now. They head together down toward the nearby town Noah was able to spot from the barn's loft door after they woke. He could make out a church spire and a few taller buildings before he climbed down off the ledge.

He'd of course insisted upon accompanying the women on their trip to gather clothes. Brittany too.

But they needed to remain behind. At least Santana's coat could be covered with a blanket, the skirt of her dress plain enough to pass for any. Though its current ruined state would put her at the level of a beggar and no more. They hope to garner sympathy with Quinn. The Southern nurse's insignia upon her coat sleeve would more than allow them to pass unbothered through the town.

Quinn steals a glance over toward Santana, one of countless many.

Santana stares back at her, suspicious, for she's noticed the furtive looks.

Quinn decides to just come out with it already. "You kissed Brittany."

Santana's simple admission of, "I did," shocks her.

Quinn feels need to emphasize. " _Kissed_ her." It is _that_ serious.

Santana gives a shrug. "Again, I did."

Quinn can't stomach her reserved attitude a second more. Taking Santana by the arm she pulls her off the carriage path and down a ways into the snowdrift. Santana allows herself to be hauled off, having expected this. And frankly, there is nothing Quinn can say to her that she feels she hasn't already heard. So it is much to her surprise that instead of God's word being spat at her, Quinn stares down at her, a look of confusion upon her face.

"Kissed her as if you're _courting_ her." Quinn doesn't think she can be any clearer than that. She expects excuses to come spilling forth, apologies for having to bear witness to something so… so… she hasn't even a word in her vocabulary to describe just how _strange_ it was.

Santana smiles at her. She's always known, somewhere beneath all her resentment and spite, that Quinn isn't like the others. Relieved she falls back into their usual report. "Not to confuse you anymore, Quinn, but I'd say we're a bit passed the point of courting now," she tells her, grinning brazenly. "Don't look so surprised."

"I've every reason to be surprised!" Quinn exclaims, red faced and embarrassed. "I thought it all a ploy when I discovered Brittany's true gender and that perhaps you both played this charade of marriage to keep her identity safe. But it's _real_. I've never—"

"Seen, heard or thought of such a union?" Santana offers, ticking the words off upon her fingers. She's only one question she need ask. "Does it bother you?"

"I don't…It's just so…" Quinn sputters, willing a response to form. "It's just so unexpected is all," she says finally, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth as she looks back up to Santana. "I guess I'd been assuming you were just _particularly_ close friends."

"You could say that, yes," Santana smirks.

Quinn squints at her, incredulous. "You're being exceedingly nonchalant about this."

"I just spent a month vying everyday for my life and hers," Santana tells her with utmost gravity. "The last of my worries is whether or not _you_ approve of our relationship. In fact I couldn't give a damn and I will warn you now I'll probably kiss her just the same when we get back."

If Quinn is taken aback by the admission she shows it not upon her face. "So you really wish to be with her… like you should with a man?" she ventures to ask, curious now how Santana could ever feel so for a woman.

"Who is to say I _should_ feel so for man?" Santana counters. And before Quinn can even look skyward Santana tells her, "And God _help you_ if you say _His_ name, Quinn."

"Firstly, I _wasn't_ ," Quinn tells her with a scoff as she gives a tug on Santana's arm and they begin walking back up toward the road. "Maybe secondly."

"Then what was firstly?" Santana asks, genuinely wanting to know.

"Everyone else," Quinn answers. "I'm sorry."

This time it is Santana who grows confused. "Why are you apologizing to me? I wasn't offended by your curiosity Quinn. It's welcome, actually."

"No, not for that," Quinn tells her softly, empathetic. "I'm sorry for what this will mean for your life. Both of you. Others won't take kindly to who you are."

"We're aware," Santana says with a tired sigh. " _Trust_ me."

Again Quinn pulls her aside and Santana has half the mind to gripe over the ragdoll she feels Quinn has mistaken her for. But hazel eyes have grown ever so serious. "I won't breathe word to a single soul, Santana," Quinn promises. "You know you can trust me, right?"

She does, wishing to say as much aloud but only able to whisper a meek, "I know," and with a small smile, an ever more indebted, "Thank you."

They carry on their way back toward the town, this time in a far less forced silence. It is still awkward though, Santana thinks, for Quinn has grown quiet in thought. Occasionally she looks up as if to say something, but quickly turns her gaze away, chewing on the inside of her cheek. After a moment Quinn deigns to speak her mind aloud. "You make a good pair, you know. It's queer, and yet somehow works. When she's around you're far more tolerable." Quinn also seems quite pleased with herself for saying so.

Santana lets out a snort. "I'm not difficult, you just test my patience."

Quinn thinks she really should have expected such a response. "If by that 'you', you meant to also include everyone on Earth aside from Brittany than I can agree," she replies in kind. "Just look at how quickly we've spiraled into bickering at each other."

"We're not bickering, this is just how we communicate," Santana tells her with a grin. "Would you rather I treated you like Brittany?"

Quinn chokes. "Good heavens, no! I enjoy the company of _men_!"

"I could make comment here, about how I wasn't insinuating a thing about my romantic relationship with her yet your mind immediately drew that conclusion anyway. But seeing as it's because of you we are here now and not still within that camp I will hold my tongue," Santana says though, to Quinn, seems to be struggling to adhere to her promise. "You best consider yourself lucky Quinn, for it's taking all in my power to hold these devious thoughts in."

"It's appreciated, _trust_ me," Quinn tells her with a chuckle. "I do… have a question though, about your relationship."

"Have you now?" Santana asks, a certain daring edge to her jesting tone. She wishes all future discussions in the like could transpire like this one has. Just a series of questions born from genuine interest rather than declarations born from unfounded hate. She also knows Quinn may be the only person she will ever share this type of conversation with and thus will enjoy it for however long it shall last. For god's sake she can even feel her throat starting to sting with the tell tale warning of tears soon to come. Will Brittany's family react just as Quinn? With open mind and hearts? Brittany can't _not_ tell them, it is the one certainty she knows will come shortly upon their arrival.

They cannot hide at home.

Not when they must hide from everyone else.

"Are you about to shed _tears_?"

Santana throws Quinn a quick, silencing stare. " _No,_ and that wasn't your question, was it?"

Quinn shakes her head, though seems hesitant of asking what she wishes to next. It's clear something has shaken Santana in the short time since they've been speaking. Whatever it is, though, Quinn feels it not in her place to ask. Not with everything else she's been able to pry from the typically reclusive woman. "Did you always know her as a woman? I could see how you might have been confused and—"

Santana stops her before anymore can be said. "I was never confused. I fell for _her_ , not Bret."

Quinn doesn't know just how to feel about the sureness clearly layered in Santana's tone. It's a confirmation that Santana has always felt so strongly for another woman, something she cannot even fathom despite having witnessed them share a kiss not hours before. Which brings to her mind Santana's declaration from earlier. "And you're truly going to kiss her again when we return?"

Even the unease in Quinn's voice doesn't stop Santana from grinning as she affirms, "Very much so."

"I'll ensure to make myself scarce then," Quinn tells her, though offers a smile. It would certainly take some getting used to and it was quite the burden of a secret to harbor, but if nothing else, Quinn thrives on a challenge. Besides she's grown rather fond of Santana and her more absentminded other half. It wouldn't do well to abandon them now over what amounts to, at its purest level, love they've found with one another. She wonders how many others there may be in the world like them, for there must be if they exist here now. How they must live deceiving the world of who they truly are just to be with one another. It does not seem like a life that anyone would choose. And yet when she looks at Santana and recalls the way she's caught her staring at Brittany, she knows there is no choice in the matter. Santana would do anything for that girl. And after witnessing the lengths Brittany went in that field to keep Santana safe, Quinn knows Brittany would do the same for her.

As they walk down into the outskirts of the town Quinn only offers Santana a hopeful whisper of, "Merry Christmas."

The reply she's met by is beholden, spoken softly with the warmest of smiles. "Merry Christmas to you as well, Quinn."

It's not long till they lapse into a far more comforting silence as they make their way behind a row of homes in search of clothes hung out to dry. The firelight barely spills down out into the snow covered yards, their steps more purposeful to avoid any hidden dangers lurking beneath the ice that could draw out unwanted notice. A few homes have garments hanging from lines, damp bed linens pinned and billowing gently in the evening breeze.

Quinn is smiling as she holds up a pair of child's slacks. "Do you think this'll do for Noah?"

But Santana's not laughing. She's not even looking up at her at all. Her eyes have widened, as she stands frozen, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of her coat.

"Santana?" Quinn ventures, worry quick to strike her. She turns, eyes scanning the distance over her shoulder but there's no one in sight.

Santana pulls her left hand from out her pocket, uncurling her fist to reveal a crumbled ball of greenbacks.

Artie's money.

A similar though strikes them both, conveyed in the hopeful gazes they turn up upon each other.

_Do you think?_

_Enough to get home?_

Santana quickly unfolds the clump of bills, flicking through the first few greenbacks.

The grin that spreads across her face is all the answer Quinn needs.

A carriage driver will be sought before the hour grows too late.

* * *

They hurry back toward the barn with the money stuffed safely back into Santana's coat pocket and clothes hugged closely to their chests. Brittany is just pleased they've returned at all, let alone with what they sought. It warms Santana to be swept so fully into waiting arms. The kiss that follows also just as fulfilling.

Quinn turns from the display, making a quick excuse to divvy up their evening meal and share the news with Noah.

Brittany watches her walk off, a mix of confusion and sadness etched upon her features. "I thought she knew?"

"You did just pounce on me unexpectedly," Santana tells her, voice lowered as she keeps her arms firmly wrapped behind Brittany's back. "Though I did warn her we'd kiss so."

"Is she upset?" Brittany asks quietly, worried for Santana's answer. She knows how close Santana has grown to Quinn, even reluctant as she is to admit so aloud. It is nice knowing there will be someone else about, someone more like her, that Santana can speak with at length about all those topics that leave Brittany's mind muddled. Quinn is as perfect a match in a friend as Brittany could ever hope for Santana to find. If Quinn were to shun them…

"I think she's just embarrassed by it is all," Santana assures her. "She thinks we're a good pair."

Brittany feels her fears lifted with that simple and promising response. They wander off to a secluded corner to help Brittany into her new clothes. The fit is wrong, as most all her men's clothes have been on her, but the slacks, shirt and coat will suffice until they reach home. The stolen clothes are plain and instantly remind Brittany of her small collection of men's attire tucked into her bedroom drawer. Old shirts, slacks and suspenders that once belonged to her father when he was a young man.

As Santana folds the ruined uniform into a tight ball they will burn when they are far enough from this town, Brittany can't help but think of what her father is doing right at this moment. Is he sitting with Emily? Reading to her Christmas tales of Santeclaus just as Emily always once read to them? Had he received word of her capture? Does he worry, wondering when he'll hear of her return?

Does he even think her alive still?

"I need to write home," is what she whispers out to Santana when brown eyes lock upon her own in concern. "They must be so worried for us."

"Even if you did, Brittany, you must understand," Santana begins to explain softly. "We'll be there long before your letter could ever arrive."

Brittany doesn't tell her she needs to send it in case the very worst should happen. Santana is so happy right now. She can't shatter that. _Pa needs to know to keep my promise._

"Just in case we're late then," Brittany tells her, forcing a smile to her lips. "I want him to know we're coming soon."

Santana brushes a kiss to her cheek. "Sooner than you think," she says, pulling the money from her pocket. "We've enough perhaps to hire a carriage driver to take us most the way."

"San… where did you…?"

"Artie, remember?" Santana says with a small smile. Grateful, Brittany notes. She leans up to press a quick kiss to the corner of Brittany's mouth. "Go write your letter," she whispers as she settles back to her heels. She knows Quinn can spare a sheet from the only journal she'd packed into the saddlebag. Her smile doesn't wane, if anything growing brighter as she steps back. "When we head to town tonight we'll find the postmaster."

Quinn is more than willing to lend pen and page for Brittany's use. Even though she mourns the loss of her other journals, she knows she'll fill more once they are North.

Brittany sits a ways off from the others, using the waning light of the setting sun to pen what she hopes are not the last words her father will hear from her.

* * *

The town is quieting as they enter, shop owners just beginning to close their doors and head upstairs for a good night's rest. There are enough people still about to give them curious glances as they pass, wondering what brings these newcomers to their town. Poor looking newcomers at that, given the haggard appearance of their dress. Brittany smiles kindly at them in turn which only further spurs them to hasten in their steps.

There've been enough robberies as of late with most the men away at war. Trusting the smile of even the most harmless of passerby was simply something no longer done.

"Excuse me!" Quinn calls out to a couple about to head down the lane toward the tavern. "If I could just ask of you—"

They hurry away before Quinn can even finish her request.

"So very nice to meet you both as well," she mutters as they quickly disappear inside the tavern.

"How's about Quinn and I head inside and try to find ourselves a driver?" Noah offers, seeing the way Brittany has begun craning her neck in search of the postmaster's shop. "You can both mail that letter and come find us inside."

"If you spend so much as a _cent_ on beer, Puckerman," Santana warns him, eyes narrowed up into his own.

He lifts his hands, smirking down at her. "I'd need a cent to do so and you've all the money."

She shoves him down the road before he can say anything more. Whilst Quinn and Noah head toward the tavern she takes Brittany by the wrist and pulls her down toward the only open general store. The postmaster is sure to have gone for the night and a stamp is in need of purchasing. She glances down to the letter held so attentively in Brittany's hands.

"What did you write to him of?" she asks.

"I just told him not to worry," Brittany tells her, hoping Santana can't hear the half-truth of her words. "That we're all right and will be there by week's end."

The shop owner keeps close eye upon them as they enter.

"You were writing an awful lot just to say that," Santana notes.

"It's just a letter, Santana."

It's a dismissive response, settling uneasily in Santana's gut. She stops Brittany from approaching the counter with a hand placed over her arm. They pause near a shelf sparsely littered with dry goods. Dust covers the can lids and there's a clutter of cobwebs strung about the back corners. Santana eyes it with caution but turns back up to Brittany who stares knowingly at what this inattention must mean for the shop owner. And what it means for those who inhabit this town. It seems not only the soldiers were suffering from hunger; everyone made do with little in these trying days.

"You said something about us, didn't you?" Santana's whispers hurriedly.

"I didn't speak of _us_ in that way," Brittany finally says, angered over the accusation in Santana's words. "That's something I'll tell him when I can see his eyes."

"Do you folks need a hand?" The shop owner's voice carries from near the front counter. Santana leans out around the shelf, waving off his assistance as politely as she's able. It's still rather curt.

And, also, Brittany notices, a might shaky. She rolls up to her toes to peak over the shelf at the owner. His eyes narrow at her, suspicion clear as the glass in the spectacles resting low on his nose. She gives him an apologetic smile before lowering and gently pulling Santana further into the row. When she's sure he won't overhear, nor will his gaze find them she stops and raises a hand up to Santana's cheek.

"I know you're scared of what my Pa may think but you don't have to be," Brittany whispers. "I _know_ him, Santana. He's _nothing_ like your father."

Santana leans into the touch. "I know and I can't wait to meet him Brittany," she says quietly, their eyes meeting once more. "But at least give him time to know _me_ before you do speak with him."

Brittany nods, understanding, though feels she must ask, "how long?"

Santana lets out a sigh. "I can't measure his acceptance. However long it takes."

"And what if you don't feel it's happened for weeks?" Brittany counters. "I can't lie to him for that long."

"Would you rather a repeat of everything that occurred when Burt found out?" Santana's tone is riddled with such bitterness Brittany is forced to take a step back. Santana's demeanor softens almost immediately. "I'm sorry, I just—"

"You're scared Santana, why can't you just admit so?" Brittany asks her, frustrated. "It's all right to feel this way. I am too."

"But it's _your_ home, Brittany. Where _you_ are wanted," Santana finally admits, hands shoved deep into her pockets to quell the way they've started to tremble. "All he knows of me is what has been said on paper."

"And he _trusts_ that woman."

"He _loves_ you, he's going to think of me—"

" _Just the same_."

Santana opens her mouth to speak but Brittany doesn't let her even utter a word in argument. To her, there simply isn't one to be had. So before Santana's eyes can even glint with rebuttal, Brittany steps up to her, and dark eyes instead widen at the sudden proximity.

"Even if it takes him time like Burt he _will_ see how good we are. And if not then… no matter what I'm going to take care of you," Brittany speaks with an intensity Santana cannot deny, or even try match. She's as taken aback by the promise as she is the mere look Brittany has focused so strongly upon her. Blue eyes, not mere seconds ago so soft, have hardened with reckless nerve. "And that's how it's going to be."

Without another word she slips a hand down into Santana's pocket, plucking a greenback from beside Santana's hand. Santana is still reeling from the exchange as Brittany strides down the row toward the shopkeeper and meets his scrutiny with a sheepish smile on her face. "I'd like a stamp, please," she says as she lays out the crumpled bill atop the countertop. "I don't know how this new paper money works. Do I need to cut it up for you?"

Still reeling, Santana hurries over before any damage can be wrought to their funds.

Soon after, and with a hope placed for its swift delivery, Brittany drops the letter into the slot outside the postmaster's shack. Santana takes her hand as Brittany steps back, apology evident in the slight squeeze Brittany feels against her fingers. No more need be said of their argument. Brittany knows the letter ensures Santana will always have a home.

* * *

They sit inside the tavern not long after, wrapped in quiet talk of greenbacks. Noah is perched at the bar, doing his best to try and swindle a drink from any woman who wanders past. Santana can't help but let out a scoff every time he gives another woman a charming smile in invitation to join him. Smartly, they all decline.

Her gaze wanders to the clock atop the fireplace mantle. Quinn has been gone for some time, presumably arranging for their departure with, as Noah had described, "the worst looker my eyes ever did have the misfortune of seein'."

Santana can't help but wonder what could ever be taking her so long.

"I still don't understand it, San," Brittany says with an exasperated groan. She rests back in her chair, legs spread in the most indelicate of manners. It makes Santana feel slightly warmer around her collar and she takes a quick sip of her water to subdue any more such urgings forward. "Why would they put money on paper? What if your pockets caught fire? All your money would _burn_."

Santana places her cup back down with a laugh. "I don't think that tends to be a problem for most people."

Brittany leans forward over the table upon her elbows, serious as she tells Santana, "Since enlisting my slacks have nearly caught fire at least _four_ _times_ , so clearly it is."

Santana tries not to choke upon the chuckle wishing to break from her throat. She hardly reasons Brittany's had that amount of trouble with slacks. She seems to be wearing them just fine, especially presently, Santana thinks.

"And with the war and all, who's to know who else is suffering the same problem? Especially on a battlefield." Santana only catches the last portion of Brittany's ponderings; though notices her lips pursing as another thought comes to her mind. "It's probably a _plague_ by now. "

Charmed, Santana wishes to reach across the small table and place her hand atop Brittany's own, but remembers where they are. A crowded tavern is not the place to be showing such affections, even with Brittany looking so very much like a man. They'll never get to be so open in Lima. She cannot lapse. She grabs her cup instead, picking at the chip along the rim. "When we get home maybe you should write to Mr. Lincoln about it."

"I probably won't remember," Brittany mutters, lying her head down atop her crossed arms. "And he seems awfully busy."

Santana smiles at her gently. "You have a valid concern, you should send it along."

Brittany stares up at Santana, grateful for the support but she also knows, "He'll just laugh... or whoever is charged with reading his letters first will anyway. It's stupid."

Santana's hand finds Brittany's this time, no hesitation. "It's not," she tells her, adamant. "You see things others don't Britt. I never thought of money burning but just think what would happen if a home were to catch fire with your money inside, or a bank?"

" _Catastrophe_ ," Brittany breathes out. She sits up quickly. "When we get to Lima let's make sure we only barter for goods, like the British."

Santana stares at the side of Brittany's face in puzzled wonder. She's not surprised by the admission, far from it in fact. Brittany is always spouting the most bizarre of ideas. Observations usually rooted in some semblance of fact. They are born of the best of intentions and yet conveyed in the strangest of ways. She understands entirely what Brittany means but still feels need to gently correct her. "They've money, Brittany."

"No, I'm pretty sure they had to give us all theirs," Brittany says, though pauses for a second to affirm her memory is indeed accurate. "When they lost the war and all," she adds, noticing the bemused expression now gracing Santana's face.

"That's not how—"

Brittany continues on, undeterred. "I bet the Queen didn't much like having to give all her jewels to us." She leans closer toward Santana in order to whisper lest she be overheard by any loyalists, "I hear she's a shut-in though. Probably explains why they haven't come to help us. Aside from the fact they can't afford ships no more."

"Britt," Santana says after a moment. "Who told you all this?"

"Finn."

_Of course he did_ , Santana thinks, sneering. _Even in death his ignorance lives on_.

Quinn comes in, grinning broadly and quickly waving them toward the door. She'll have to correct Brittany later, maybe once they're home… and it's with a smile she realizes just how soon that will be. Four days at most, maybe more if the weather takes a turn. A little less than a week from now they'll be standing at the steps of the Pierce farm. Her hand finds Brittany's as they walk, uncaring of any wayward glances they may attract with the display. They'll be gone from this town in a half-hours time, never to set foot South again. These people don't matter; their opinions, thoughts and stares just edging the periphery of her awareness. Not one iota of anxiety treads through her veins for tomorrow Brittany will be right here at her side, just as she is now. Always.

And sure, she's fairly positive the horrified stare of the man they've just passed is not in reaction to their closeness but because in all likelihood Brittany is wearing his slacks. She doesn't care either way. Right now Brittany may look every bit a farmer's son with her ill-fitting clothes and short side-swept hair but she won't for long. Her hair will grow back to the long length Santana knows she misses, the slacks replaced with skirts. She'll look every bit the Brittany Santana's never known and is both nervous and eager to finally meet.

She spends the rest of the night with her head upon Brittany's shoulders inside the back of the carriage Quinn was able to negotiate for them. The driver will take them as far as the Kentucky border where she explains a train depot can carry them the rest of their journey. No rails reach Lima yet, but one more than led into Marysville.

Santana can't help but think how thrilled Sam will be to see them all again.

* * *

**January 1** **st** **, 1863**

Marysville is an unassuming town, charming with its quaint shops and newly-laid brick facades. Homes equally as inviting line the roads, shaded beneath large elms and oaks alike. One would expect a neighbor to smile from their porch as you passed on an evening stroll, perhaps even going so far as to welcome you inside for a quick drink or two. In fact, Santana thinks she's just seen that very instance from right out the train window not mere seconds ago. It's shocking, to say the least, to see such hospitality after a journey riddled with such aversion to even the slightest generosity.

It's also not at all the type of place Santana, or Quinn for that matter, had ever imagined someone like Noah was raised.

They think they've certainly boarded a train for the wrong town and yet one look at Noah would assert otherwise. He sits up straighter from his spot on the bench, eyes closed as a wistful grin begins to form at the corners of his mouth. He breathes in deep the air of his town, the very picture of a man returned home and ready to begin his life anew.

Brittany looks equally delighted, eyes soaking in every finite detail she's able from her perch beside the window. It's all a wonder to her, having never set foot in a town so splendid in design. From the iron workings of the streetlamps dotting the roadway to the glint of blues and yellows varnished into the grocer's sign, all of it is wonderful. So much more superb than Lima with its deep browns and rusted window awnings. She wonders what Cincinnati must be like, if it too is just as inviting as Marysville seems. But more yet, what Santana will think of Lima when compared. She looks indifferent to the sights outside the window; her brown eyes are unfocused, watching the trees begin to pass more slowly as they approach the station. Brittany wonders what she must be thinking, but chooses instead to watch her silently. Whatever it may be she feels it doesn't quite matter. Not with the way a few of Santana's fingers still absentmindedly trace the lines of her upturned palm. When the train finally stops and the whistle rings loudly throughout the carts, Santana's eyes find her own. "Almost home, Britt," she whispers, stealing a quick kiss as the steam fogs over their window.

A light snow has begun to fall as they exit the train, the last of their money spent on the fare. There's even a certain skip to Noah's gait as he leads them all through the main streets and down toward the lane where his family resides.

"Sam's is just down the way too, a stone-throw from mine actually," he tells them, the grin never once slipping from his lips. With a holler he grabs Quinn by the wrists and spins her about. His laugh is infectious, spreading amongst the friends even as Quinn tries her best to relent.

"Noah!" she shrieks. It's a half-hearted scold at best.

"We'll drink tonight!" Noah shouts out across the town center as he finally lets Quinn settle beside him. "I am home, Marysville!"

No one within sight even turns to spare him any mind. Aside from a young shop girl Santana notices waving enthusiastically toward him from behind the window she polishes.

"One of my many _devotees_ ," he grins, giving the girl a smooth wave in return.

"She looks about Emily's age," Brittany notes aloud.

Santana smirks over toward him, feeling need to point out, "her sister is about all of _twelve_."

" _Unreciprocated_ of course," Noah quickly amends, throwing Quinn what he hopes is a charming smile. She stares at him though, unamused. "How's about that juice then, eh? It's about time we were right an wallpapered together."

They follow him up the street, and down a ways more. The homes grow more clustered and less grand the further on they walk from the train station. Brittany still thinks them all impressive and a fleeting fear of worry sparks within her for the look of judgment she's noticed upon Santana's face cannot bode well. If this is her reaction to Marysville, what ever will she then think of Lima?

Noah approaches one home, the smallest on the lane by far. The one also in need of the most care, Santana thinks. A few wood slats have come undone along the siding and hang down from where they had once been tirelessly reinforced with rusted nails. The windows fare no better, clouded with a layer of dust that's now frozen over the glass. Noah will have to wait till it warms before he can ever hope to clean them.

Though given the state of the rest of the home it seemed the least of his worries.

_Is that a scorch mark on the roof's edge?_

Noah knocks hard upon the door a few times before stepping back to lean against the porch frame.

"I thought you lived here?" Brittany asks, voicing aloud what has simultaneously crossed Santana and Quinn's minds as well. Who knocks on their own door? She leans down toward Santana to share, "maybe he forgot which is his."

"Nah," Noah says with a shake of his head. "Mine's across the way," he motions behind them to where a far more cared-for home sits. He also seems to smile more as he relaxes against the post. "Figured you'd want to see Sam first. I know he's missed you both."

Only Quinn seems confused by the explanation, turning immediately to Santana in hopes of receiving some clarification. But she's not paying her the slightest ounce of attention. Not when the door has opened and there, standing in all his one-armed glory, is Sam Evans.

" _Good god_ ," is all he's able to breathe out upon seeing just whom stands in his yard.

Noah steps forward, walloping Sam across his back with a few solid thumps in greeting. "Now he ain't got a pot to pee in but his front room makes for the _best_ spot to tip back a few beers and warm your feet. Literally, since it's about six feet between that there window and the damn hearth."

"We make _do_ ," Sam corrects him, pushing against Noah's shoulder in jest. "Not all of us have your obvious good fortune. And I can't believe you've all made it out! No one's hurt are they?"

"We're as fit as can be, all thanks to Quinn here," Noah boasts, urging her to step forward. She doesn't move though. "She's wanting to learn medicine like Santana, be a nurse and all that. For a woman she's real good with—"

"Sam!" a young voice shouts from inside the home. " _Sam_! Stacy's tryin' to feed her dolly fire again!"

Sam gives a sigh, though it's not at all perturbed. "Remember how I joked about joining the circus once?"

"Did you?" Brittany asks.

Sam laughs, for leave it to Bret to sound genuinely fascinated by the very mention of such an absurd idea. He also thinks it's the first time he's laughed so since returning home from the war front.

" _SAM! She's a spoon for the fire!_ "

His parents would feed him to the fire himself if anything were to befall his sister whilst they were gone. So it is with reluctance that he turns toward Quinn and offers, "Quinn, I'll meet your acquaintance better once I save my sister and her doll from a fiery end." Then to Noah, "Go fetch those beers." And lastly to Santana and Brittany, "You both owe me proper hellos so you better come inside. I'll be right back!" He disappears through the door, hollering for his sister to grow some sense.

Noah leaves them to return home for the liquor and maybe some spare dresses for both women… but mostly to escape the withering stare Quinn has yet to yield in its intensity from the side of his head.

"For a woman I'm real good with _what_?" she repeats to him with a snarl as he passes. " _With what_?"

They climb up the few unbalanced steps that consist of the Evans' front porch. Sam welcomes them inside, breathless and grinning like a fool as he helps them from their coats. He's not heard one word of the regiment's whereabouts since the start of winter, all his letters seeming to disappear into the void of war. Bret looks just as he last saw him, all legs and slim as ever. Though now with a mess of blonde hair even he himself is envious of. There was never a need to always keep that cap on he thinks, if this is what was always hidden beneath. Brittany is the first to give him a smile, trying her hardest to evoke as much of Bret as she can back into her mannerisms. He was never told, she realizes, as he pats her strongly on the back… she wonders if he'll be as accepting as Noah.

Sam cannot believe the state of Santana's appearance, fearing for why she looks so frail as he slips the old coat from off her shoulders. But her eyes, he thinks, he's never seen her look so utterly at ease. Thus, it is much to his surprise when they focus upon him, no manner of taunt to her gaze. Even more surprising is the hug she quickly envelops him in.

She says nothing, but the strength of her hold conveys the message she's too overcome to utter. "I've missed you as well, Santana," Sam whispers, giving her a gentle squeeze before she pulls away.

Quinn feels a might out of place, watching all the exchanges from the doorway. It is clear Sam is relieved to be reunited with his friends again; all of them wearing the same expressions of contentment upon their faces. She catches the eye of two children, each looking a miniature version of their much older brother. They huddle close near the doorway out the small foyer, staring up at the newcomers with wonder and the bashfulness born of having been caught in disobedience not moments before.

Quinn smiles kindly to them, the young girl returns the gesture with toothless glee.

"Stacey and Stevie," Sam offers, seeing where her gaze has focused. Quinn turns up to him, extending a hand as she tucks some wayward hairs back behind her ear. "And we don't shake no hands with life savers in this home."

"Pardon?" Quinn asks, momentarily confused until she finds herself wrapped in a rather comforting one-armed hug.

"Thank you for taking care of them," Sam whispers to her.

Brittany is glad for the reunion, and Sam's siblings are well and adorable enough. But there is still the matter of her question from earlier having gone unanswered. So as Sam leads them across the short distance into the front room, she must inquire, "Though in all seriousness Sam, have you truly joined a circus?"

* * *

As promised Noah returns with beer and a few dresses he tells Santana and Quinn once belonged to his mother and _not_ the few women who'd taken to sharing his bed in the few months before he was conscripted. The less they knew of their previous owners the better, especially in the case of Quinn who seemed reluctant to accept his word for truth and eyed the garments with a disdain usually observed on his mother.

"Your mother goes without a bodice often then, I take it?" Quinn had cleverly asked of him, a response from Noah clearly more than unnecessary.

And smoothly he supplied, "Says it suffocates her what with being past her child bearing years and all."

Quinn stared at him for a while more, eyes squinted in a way he wished to squirm from. But he held posture, holding tight to the small case of beer as he hoped she'd not ask any further of him. He was sure by nights end he'd be confessing it all to her anyway. The liquor would loosen his tongue if the sight of Quinn in that dress didn't first. Of all the women he's courted she's proven the most obstinate of them all. Yet he'd not give this challenge up for anything.

"Do you need me to take those from you there, _Stanley_?" Santana had trilled into his ear as he watched Quinn disappear into the bedroom to change. "Or did Quinn specifically instruct you to stand here like the _good_ pup you are until she returns?"

"Oh! Is that dress for Santana?" Brittany had asked almost in subsequent timing. "Because I am liking what I can see of it. You'll look so beautiful for tomorrow, San."

Santana predictably blushed, moving away from him with the dress held protectively in her arms and a silencing stare narrowed his way in counter.

He had never been more grateful for Brittany's interruption.

And Quinn did look a vision in blue. She even returned his smile as she settled herself down in front of the fire. She's still there, though joined by Stevie whom seems intent upon asking her every question his young mind can spin upon whim.

The children have taken quickly to Brittany and Quinn, a move Noah attributes to the clout of blonde.

"To them, if you've hair of gold you must be some distant cousin of sorts," he explains to Santana from where they sit sharing the sole parlor chaise. She hasn't left to change into her dress yet, engrossed as she's become watching Brittany and Stacey interact. The garment lies across her lap, forgotten in place of a wistful smile and tender gaze. He'd make joke of it if he were sitting outside her reach. Also if Sam weren't so near. Best he not be the one to divulge that secret… and he had promised to keep his word. Instead Noah carries on with his observation. "They'll swarm you like flies to honey. We might as well be lepers for all the attention we'll garner from them tonight."

Sam takes a hefty swig from his beer, nodding from where he stands reclined against the wall to their side. "Stevie's already confessed to wishing Quinn for his future wife."

"Then you best tell that boy he'll have to wait till I'm good and buried first," Noah tells him, watching with veiled interest as Stevie scoots nearer to Quinn beside the fire. "What is he? All of five? Who thinks of marriage at that age?"

"He's nine, Puckerman. He's just smitten," Sam says with a chuckle. "And from the looks of it Stacey too."

Noah gives Santana a pointed and entirely amused stare at those words. She merely ignores the look, for at Stacey's age she's utterly sure she'd be just as enamored with Bret Pierce too. And unlike Noah –who continues letting out small disapproving grunts whenever Stevie grows bold enough to touch Quinn's hair— Santana is more than content to watch from a distance at the ease with which Brittany has fallen into the world of pretend with the youngest Evans. They lie just near the doorway, all sprawled on their stomachs with a line of twigs spread across the floor between them. Of what Santana can gather from Brittany's narration some type of perilous river crossing is taking place for the doll.

She can't help but think she's glimpsing a moment soon to unfold in the future. Where instead of Stacey, Emily will be lying opposite of Brittany. And the smile Brittany wears will be wider than the one she sports now, filled with such love for the sister she's been apart from for so long. _Please,_ Santana prays, _please let her be alive yet._ She's not thought of the possibility, alarmingly likely as it is, that they are to reach the farm find her gone. Brittany would be devastated.

Irrevocably so.

Sam takes Santana's prolonged silence as a maturity of sorts. He grins wryly down at Noah as he then tells him, "At least Santana's the sense not to be jealous over a _child_."

Santana is more than happy to focus upon them and not the wretched thoughts now manifesting in her head.

"All I'm saying is the boy could use some manners," Noah relents, sipping at his now-tepid beer. "And speaking of those to instill them, where are you parents anyway, Sam? It's getting late."

Sam slumps even further against the wall, if possible, looking as if he just wishes to be swallowed by the fading wallpaper. "They won't be back for another day yet," he admits, clearly embarrassed to be sharing the small bit of information. "Work's hard to come by nowadays so they've gone down to Dublin, maybe hoping for Pop to get a rail job. My mother's been sewing these quilts for the war." He picks at the corner to the unfinished blanket draped over the edge of chaise's arm. He does so fondly, Santana notes, even as he gives a long sigh and lets it fall back into place. "It don't get her much but it's been enough to keep food on the table for now."

Noah's learned to leave well enough alone, especially when it came to the topic of Sam's finances. He knows it must be hard for him to find work now, being only able to lift half what any other man can. And as his friend he feels he must show his support, in effect by patting Sam on the shoulder and changing the subject. "Do you know if the Berrys are in town?" he asks, having meant to bring this question up sooner. "I was thinkin' we might borrow their coach to get these gals to Lima tomorrow."

Sam thinks on it for a moment and with a click of his tongue answers, "I'm not sure. We can pay them a visit in the morn though." He smiles a bit, realizing, "If they are, Rachel may even invite us all in to breakfast."

Noah's face lights up at the suggestion.

Santana must ask, "Who?"

"Finn's fiancé," Sam explains, quieted in tone. "She hasn't much left her home since they got word."

"Have you seen her?" Noah asks, just as considerate.

Sam shakes his head. "Like I said, she hasn't come out for anyone. Hopefully tomorrow changes that."

Noah nods, the mood dampened even despite the laughter filling the room. Santana grows uncomfortable sitting amidst their silence. She feels a stranger to their mourning, not having spent enough time with Finn to truly know him. But these men all grew up together. They've a lifetime of memories they seem to be sinking beneath the waters of. Each man stares down at his beer, eyes purposely avoiding the others'. There's nothing she thinks she could say that would pry them from their thoughts, not without coming across as curt and uncaring. She sympathizes, truly she does, but feels they need to be left alone. It's clear neither has talked of those events; they're just waiting upon the other to finally broach the matter they skirt on the cusp of.

So Santana stands with dress in hand, and as sincere and polite as she's able asks, "Sam, could I use your room to change?"

Her voice seems to draw him away, glassy eyes meeting hers as he clears his throat. He nods. "The only one there is," it's a jest, though spoken in a heavy tone. "Pop never finished the second so it's the only working door down the hall. Would you like me to show you?"

"That's all right," she says, motioning for him to take her spot on the chaise. He does, and remains in silence beside Noah as she walks across the room.

"Finally getting into that dress?" Brittany asks with a chuckle Santana hasn't heard in quite some time. Deep and forced and all very much Bret. As she steps overtop where Brittany lies Santana is reminded that Sam's still unaware of the secret. And if the look Brittany has just given her is any indication, she very much wants that to change.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," Santana tells her, hoping she's answered Brittany's concern.

Brittany watches Santana leave the room, a might puzzled over the brooding expression upon her face and the hush that's overcome both Sam and Noah. She glances back toward the men to find their attention is drawn elsewhere. Not necessarily the present, but back some time, she thinks. Her father would get that way sometimes, whenever his thoughts touched upon memories of her mother. He'd sit all quiet like, simply staring into nothing for long hours.

Quinn has noticed as well, even with Stevie's continuous tries to force her gaze back upon him. She's never seen Noah look so forlorn. With a look spared toward Brittany, it becomes obvious that neither of them knows quite how to approach the men. So she rises with Stevie's hand clasped in her own. "How about you show your brother that trick too?"

He beams up at her and excitedly drags her the rest of the way across the room.

" _It's not a very good trick_ ," Stacey whispers furtively to Brittany.

Brittany's barely heard her though; focused as she's become listening for the sound of the door Santana's disappeared behind to open once more.

After a moment she stands, offering an apologetic excuse to Stacey as she heads off in search of Santana. They need to discuss how they'll be approaching Sam, especially with him so despondent currently. Would waiting a half hour suffice? Perhaps a full just to be sure?

Santana would know.

He was always most open with her.

"San, is it all right if I—" Brittany opens the bedroom door, the rest of her question lost as her gaze lands upon Santana.

The ruined dress is pulled up high over Santana's head when Brittany's voice renders her muscles still.

"Should I go?" Brittany asks, though makes no move to leave, one hand still clasped around the door handle.

Santana makes a throaty noise in response, the only sound she's able. She can feel Brittany's eyes staring openly at her, the soft hairs at the nape of her neck rising in effect. With a final tug the dress fully leaves her body and her face finally comes into view beneath mussed hair. Brittany steps further into the room, closing the door silently at her back. Santana's slip still hangs from her shoulders, looking bigger now than Brittany ever remembers it. But more troubling yet are the scars marred across the back of Santana's arms and shoulders… remnants of wounds she's never mentioned.

Santana touches one, feeling Brittany's gaze burning against her skin. "From the ambush," she explains quietly. "They look gruesome, don't they? Like I've been using myself as a cadaver."

"They're not awful," Brittany tells her, voice lowered with sympathy. "You could never not be beautiful, Santana."

Santana's glad for the hair still shrouding her face for she's sure if not Brittany could see the way her cheeks have darkened. Smiling foolishly she lets her old dress fall from her hands as she looks down at her body. Almost immediately a grimace crosses her expression upon sight of the discolored state of her slip. "God, I feel as though I must smell just as you did the first time we met."

"You don't smell so awful either," Brittany says with a laugh. "Not from far away anyway."

Santana arches an eyebrow. "I could come closer and test that."

Brittany smiles, beckoning her nearer with a raise of her brows.

And with a roll of her eyes Santana concedes, closing the breadth of space that had been separating them. Brittany's obviously followed her to speak of the look they shared back in the front room but if her hands wish to wander in the interim, Santana isn't about to stop them. What she doesn't expect though, is how soon the topic is broached after those warms palms touch upon her hips.

"Sam's the only one who doesn't know." It's a whisper, Brittany clearly cautious of any ears that could be listening in at the door. She twirls a section of the slip between her fingers, brow lowered with thought. "I want to tell him," Brittany continues, finally meeting Santana's eyes. "And about _us_ too."

"We will," Santana tells her. "Just after he's had a good amount of liquor in him." She gives Brittany an amused look as she turns to collect her new dress from the bed. She's stopped though when Brittany gives a tug on her slip, keeping her in place.

"I don't want him to forget what we say," Brittany says, her expression hardened. "Do you?"

_If he were to react poorly_ , Santana thinks, telling him with a few drinks in his belly would ensure come morn it could all be excused as fantasy. But the way Brittany is staring down at her, as if the mere thought of Sam being told without a sober mind is _hurting_ her… Santana lets her chin fall some as she answers; "Only if it changes the way he thinks of us."

She can feel a few of Brittany's fingers trace over her cheekbone before tilting her head up so their eyes may meet once more. "It will," Brittany tells her softly, a hopeful smile crossing her lips. "But it'll be good, you'll see."

Santana stills, breath held as heavy footsteps run down the hall followed by Stacey's loud laughter.

Brittany leans nearer, pulling Santana into a needed embrace. "As soon as you're dressed then, we'll tell him," she whispers, dropping a kiss to Santana's bare shoulder.

It was just to be a simple parting. She'd step away with a smile whilst Santana turned to change into the borrowed dress. They'd meet a few minutes later in the front room to gather Sam, perhaps take him to the kitchen, somewhere secluded and quiet to tell him. It wouldn't do well to linger in the bedroom, not with Stacey running about and now perhaps curious as to where her play partner has vanished for so long. But one kiss against Santana's shoulder leads to two, then another brushed over her neck.

There is a hitch of breath from Santana before her hands find purchase in Brittany's shirtfront and she tugs her up, intent upon those lips pressing against her own. Brittany's own hands slide behind Santana's neck, drawing her near and into a slow kiss. It's something neither has felt they've shared in a long while, let alone so blessedly alone. Brittany relishes in it, every subtle taste of the spice in the beer along Santana's lips and the long breaths she exhales through her nose against Brittany's cheek.

Santana leans further into Brittany's body, pressing against her until her arms lock around Brittany's back. Their knees bump as the kiss grows more frantic, deeper.

They break apart though, still clinging to one another as Stacey's laughter rings sharply in their ears from where it echoes right outside the door. Santana pulls away first, just enough distance for her gaze to meet Brittany's.

"We can't, can we?" Brittany whispers, voice still layered with the want left unmet.

Santana bows her head with a shake, letting out a ragged breath as Brittany lays a kiss to her forehead. "Not here," she whispers between the soft pecks Brittany places down her temple. Santana bites down hard on her bottom lip. "Britt…. _we can't_."

With an audible, and shiver-inducing sigh, Brittany pulls away. "I'm all coiled inside like a drag harrow," she grumbles.

Santana looks up, unsure what she speaks of but thinking the feeling more than mutual. "Should I know what that is?"

Brittany hands her the new dress. "It's for tilling the fields. You can only pull it forward, never backward or it gets all blocked up," she explains as Santana pulls the slip up and over her head in one fluid motion. The full expanse of Santana's body, unclothed now and so close tightens the pressure already building in her gut. " _I feel like that right now_."

There was once a time, Brittany knows, when Santana would have made her turn whilst she changed. She can't help the smile that works across her face as she watches Santana step into the new garment and pull it over her shoulders. Before she can begin to tie the laces at the front Brittany moves forward, doing them up for her, willing her hands not to tremble so.

Santana is finding it hard to breathe with the way the backs of Brittany's knuckles continue to graze her skin. "I think… I think you should go. I can do this myself."

Their gaze's lock, each darkened. "Santana—"

"Brittany if I touch you right now, I won't be able to stop."

"That's okay with me," Brittany whispers, hands still poised just over Santana's chest.

"You know how you feel like one of those harrow things?" Santana feels her throat has dried, voice sounding far raspier than intended. "I feel _hundreds_."

The words are barely from her mouth when a sharp knock sounds against the door.

"Everything all right in there?" Noah asks, unable to fully hide the amusement in his tone. "Because if someone needs a _hand_ , I am more than— Oh! Hi, Santana…"

"It's as if you've a divining rod honed on us," Santana scowls up at him looking, he thinks, a right disheveled and provoked mess.

He peeks inside the room, catching Brittany giving him a half-hearted wave and appearing equally disgruntled.

"I interrupted, didn't I?" he asks, feeling a smidge terrible about the intrusion.

" _You did_ ," she snaps, pushing him roughly out of the doorway.

"And did you get to fini— _ow_! Santana! _Damn,_ woman!" He shouts, rubbing furiously at the spot on his arm she landed a rather well aimed smack. "You're worse than the greybacks, I swear it."

* * *

She couldn't stay inside any longer. Whether the heat was born of the fire still burning in the hearth or the proximity to which Brittany sat beside her once back in the front room it mattered not. She needed to breathe, stomach too coiled yet from her short time spent in the bedroom with warm lips pressed against her— she groans inwardly, halting any more thoughts that could spur her to pull Brittany back into that room. How that woman could so easily fall back into play with Stacey when any brush of her arm against Santana's sent a torrent of tremors right down to her center, she knows not. With a whispered excuse of needing to use the outhouse, she ventured outside to have a seat on Sam's porch in the hopes of collecting her nerves.

But more acutely, her senses.

She lets her head fall down to rest against her upturned knees, breathing the cold air deep into her heated chest. She keeps telling herself things will be different once they're home but she's coming to realize that will never be true. There will always be interruptions just as there will always be those they must be careful about. She can't sneak away with Brittany whenever she likes, they won't be alone. There will be Hendrick… Emily…

The door opens quietly at her back and Santana's thoughts quell some. She doesn't move, expecting the body now coming to sit beside her to be speak with a voice she's already prepared herself a response for.

So when instead of Brittany it is Sam who gives her a side a nudge, she can honestly declare herself surprised. "Something you up for confessing?" he asks, sly.

She doesn't know quite what he means by his words, though has a feeling it may have everything to do with the way she stormed from the hall with a sulking Noah at her heels. But she doesn't much feel like explaining those actions, choosing instead to say, "Yes, actually. I've been wondering how is it you manage to drink anything from those miniscule cups you provided us with a mouth so mammoth? Or is that why there are so few in your kitchen? As you've been accidently swallowing the others?"

Sam simply keeps smiling at her. "I could just ask you outright, you know."

Santana stares back off toward the street, digging her chin into her knee as she hugs her legs closer and mumbles aloud, "Only seeing your parents could I ever begin to understand this mystery."

He figured she'd be about as forthcoming with the truth as she's always been. He doesn't wish to put her on the spot, and most certainly wishes she were more at ease beside him. He can't help but think that the longer he stays, the more she push him away. He knows he must be careful with what he says next. All he wants is hear the truth in her words. She's nothing to be so shamed of, he thinks.

"Santana," he calls for her softly, laying a hand gently over her shoulder. She doesn't shake it off, nor make move to show she's all right with the touch. He waits till she tilts her head enough to look at him from the corner of her eyes. She seems upset, though resilient, as if bracing herself for whatever he may say next. He smiles kindly at her. "I know how you feel for Bret. It's okay."

He'd expected a bit of a blush, some denial despite the smile he predicated seeing in her eyes. But she's not even blinked since he's spoken. After a long pause she lets her legs fall to the porch as she tucks them back at her side. To say he's surprised to find her facing him so openly is an understatement. Santana was never so forward and has never looked at him with such apprehension.

"Sam, there's…" she begins to say, her words dying as she turns her gaze to the porch steps. Brittany was supposed to be at her side when they told them. Santana can hear her voice muted through the closed door but clear all the same. She sounds happy, far more at ease than she feels currently. Santana knows she should go get her… but instead she remains, prodding with a finger at the frost collected within an indent in the old wood. "There's something you need to know about Bret."

"I know you're in love with him, if that's what you mean to tell me," he says, hoping to get the words out quickly and thus appease some of the tension he feels she's been harboring for sometime now.

She looks up at him, unsurprised. "It's… partly," she tells him, voice quieted. "Bret, he's… he's not—"

Sam feels his blood run as cold as the ice spread across his steps. "Is he okay?" he asks, tone full of utmost concern. "I know you all said his arm was torn real bad and—"

" _She'sokay_ ," Santana spills out all at once, her words speedy and thereby muddled. Sam's brow furrows, not understanding. Santana takes a deep breath before meeting his eyes and speaking slowly. "Bret is a woman."

Sam feels his mouth part, jaw dropping open in silent shock. "Are you trying to pull a joke on me?" he asks, puzzled. "For you know how you think mine awful? This one may take prize."

"It is not a joke," Santana tells him, her gaze unwavering in its candor.

Sam's hand finally falls down from her shoulder. "So Bret is really…"

" _Really_ a woman," Santana affirms, her own hands now clutched in her lap. "Her name's Brittany."

Sam leans back, eyes clouded as he tries to grasp the truth of her words. It is an unexpected admission, surely. Yet the more he thinks on it the more he realizes, "I should have known, shouldn't I?" Santana feels the unyielding pressure in her back ebb at his tone. It's as if he's held back a chuckle, sounds _relieved_ even. "I mean he, well _she_ , was always coming up with the most absurd excuses not to join Noah and I for wash time. Once Bre-Brittany told us she couldn't touch water for a week as it went against her belief to allow God's tears to touch her skin. It'd rained the day before."

"So you're… you won't let this change anything, will you?" Santana asks him, hopeful.

He smiles at her and shakes his head. "Truth be told, I've more esteem for her knowing so. Have you any idea what we all were put through? What she must have _endured_ to stay when others would gladly have remained home in her place?"

"She had to come," Santana tells him, though even her tone would suggest she'd at one point thought it outrageous as well. "You know her sister is ill."

"She took her father's enlistment," Sam concedes for himself. "That just makes her braver than all of us. Better…"

"You may look a woman, what with those lashes and lips and all," Santana says, also giving a lock of his hair a quick flick. He rolls his eyes but the slight quirk at the corner of his enormous mouth speaks otherwise of his humor. "But you are just as brave and good."

He really can't believe this is the same woman he once met. War changes people, of that he knows. But it's never for the better. Resentment, regret and sorrow: that's what his father always told him followed soldiers home from war. He sees none of that in Santana; in fact he sees quite the opposite. Though her happiness is more subdued, it is evident in brown eyes now more full of life and smiles less far and few in-between. "How long have you kept her secret?"

She relaxes more in posture as she answers, "Since the day we met."

The door opens at their back and Quinn leans over the threshold, laughing as her gaze drops down upon the pair. "Santana, come in here, the children wish to hear a song."

And then Brittany's voice carries in from inside, "I've already told them you've the most beautiful voice!"

"Better than the lady down the way!" Stevie exclaims.

"The best!" Brittany affirms.

Realizing she's interrupted enough, Quinn gives them both a small smile before ducking back inside.

Sam hasn't moved his eyes from Santana though, looking at her with just as much steadfastness as before. When her gaze moves back upon him, he asks, "And been in love with her?"

Santana visibly stiffens at his question, not knowing whether to speak the truth or not.

"I'm not judgin' you none Santana," he says quietly. "It's not common but… but it's _okay_ by me."

"Sam…" she whispers, gaze fretted by the answer she knows Brittany more than would have asserted to by now. How had it been so easy to tell Quinn and yet now so difficult?

"You remember the Berrys we mentioned earlier? They live just up the street and they're _just_ like you," he tells her, scooting nearer as he drapes his only arm across her shoulders. "They're the best people. Funny and a might loud, but _good_ men. Maybe they'll be home tomorrow when we head over and you can meet them. You don't have to cry none."

She hadn't even realized she'd begun to. And in lieu of wiping her tears away, she leans into his hold, her own arms quick to wrap behind his back. She hugs him tightly. "I really have missed you, you know."

"Miss Santana!" Stacey's muted holler filters out through the closed door.

"You best go, before they come out here and drag you in by the hair," Sam whispers to her, smiling at her as he's always done.

Nothing's changed.

She can't help but recall Brittany's words; _it'll be good, you'll see_.

Brittany is always right, she thinks, one way or the other.

He helps her to stand, even offers use of his folded sleeve to dry her eyes. "Or we could just catch them all in one of my tiny cups, you know, the ones I haven't swallowed by chance."

She laughs and rolls her eyes. "Please don't ever change, Sam."

* * *

**January 2** **nd** **, 1863**

The three women wake the next morning, necks sore from a night spent curled on borrowed war quilts in Sam's front room. He apologized of course, cheeks tinged red with embarrassment once more. His siblings had claimed the sole bed for the night, leaving he and his guests to the unwelcoming floor.

"You get used to it after a few years," he'd told them.

After a few more needless apologies he left for the Berrys, hoping to return with the promise of good news for a speedy departure.

Noah arrived shortly thereafter, fresh from a night spent in the comforts of his own bed, and upon seeing the way Quinn winced as she stretched he offered to alleviate some of her pain with a well-intentioned massage.

He was refuted, of course.

Santana also declined, though with far less sarcasm than Quinn. She made up for it with another welt to his arm.

Brittany readily volunteered. She felt he owed her a great deal for all the ones she used to knead into his legs.

Santana topped his welt with another bruise after he finished. "Were you raised in a hovel? _These_ hands are the only pair that should be touching her in such a way."

"If it counts for anything, it wasn't even all that good," Brittany had mentioned as she helped Santana into her coat.

Sam returns just as a light snow begins to fall.

"They aren't back from a trip yet but Rachel is home and insists you girls share a morning tea with her before we go," he tells them, shaking the snow from off his cap. With a grin he secures it back atop his head and holds the door open for everyone to file out. "Noah and I can arrange the horse to the cart while you all chat."

"Chat about what?" Quinn asks as she passes him.

Noah shares a telling look with Sam. "Things Santana and Britt here might want to hear," he tells her.

"Bye Bret!" Stacey calls out from the doorway, waving giddily from her brother's side.

Brittany gives her a wave in return, realizing this may be the last time she's ever addressed as the soldier.

She smiles at the thought.

It's still early yet; the morning sun hidden behind a low layer of grey sky and flurry of snow as they make their way down the lane. For once the chill air does not seep into their bones, feeling almost pleasant even as it brushes against their cheeks as they walk. Brittany feels it more a stroll really, their pace far from hurried. Sam is speaking of the neighbors, pointing at homes and divulging little aspects of their character. Noah supplies a quip or two, doing his best it seems to draw a smile from Quinn's lips.

But Brittany's not really paying them much attention. She's far more interested in the way Santana has linked her arm into the groove of her elbow and nestled close to her side. Not for any other reason than simply because she wishes to. It's a wonderful feeling that settles in Brittany's heart at the notion. Equal parts warm and dear.

She can't wait to have moments like this with her in Lima.

"Samuel! Noah!" A voice, piercing in nature, calls out from far up ahead.

"And that would be Rachel," Sam says by way of explanation, giving her a slight wave in greeting. "Don't be quick to make judgments."

Brittany wonders what he means as she turns toward the home, expecting to find yet another in similar size to the others they've passed. She almost stops walking entirely as she stares up at the house. The Berry home is anything but similar to those neighboring. It is far grander, far more polished, and far more—

"Dear god, do they _bleed_ money?" Santana gasps, summating Brittany's thoughts entirely.

"They're very blessed," Sam says, and Santana is smart enough to pick up upon the modesty laced in his tone to say anything further. It's clear he thinks very well of the family, even given the poor financial state of his own.

"Hello friends!" Rachel exclaims, clasping her hands from where she awaits them at the edge of her family's sprawling veranda. For something quite so large could never be considered as lowly as a porch, Santana thinks as they approach. Porches are what she sat on this morning beside Sam. They are a space of comfort, a small foyer of sorts between the inside of a home and those unwelcome to its warmth.

The Berrys veranda seems like it could play host to an entire company of men if the war were to ever spill so far North.

And Rachel seems quite at home in her sprawling _foyer_. She is also entirely enthused about the eminent arrival of her guests.

Even at a distance her beaming smile is evident. As is, Santana thinks warily, the wild look about her dark eyes.

Sam turns to them as they continue up the Berrys front path, "She's a bit… _loquacious_ but it comes from a good place."

Santana worries why his words are spoken as if in warning.

"Finn loved her something fierce," Noah adds, also waving up to the short brunette. "Best not to mention him. _At all_ , Santana," he amends when he catches her giving thought to his words. "Lest you want to be _walking_ to Lima."

"I wasn't going to say anything about the oaf," she tells him, mildly slighted. "You think me that stupid?"

"No, but I also know how short your patience is," he says, voice quieting as they near where Rachel stands. " _Don't upset her_."

"Hello everyone!" Rachel greets them, arms spread wide and yet still not able to span the length of the steps. "Welcome, welcome! Samuel has spoken so much of you and I must confess I am most thrilled to be helping you on this last leg of your trying journey to reunite with your family. This is the stuff of great stories, if my parents were home they would demand you regale them with all of it but I know your time with me is short so I suppose the abridged version Samuel has shared will suffice. Do come up! It is so very good to meet you all!" She extends out a hand to the first of them to join her, smile somehow wider than before.

Quinn seems tentative as she allows Rachel to shake her hand, but does so anyway. "Hi," she says, polite as she's able. "I'm—"

"Quinn, you must be Quinn," Rachel supplies, thrilled. "Samuel mentioned your beauty could rival near any of us in this town. He's quite right. And stop flustering down there Samuel, it's nothing to be so shamed about admitting. Unless you're married, or soon to be married, Miss Quinn, in which case I apologize."

"I don't even know what you're trying to say," Quinn tells her, feeling a vein along her temple throb. "While you articulate well enough you somehow also make it near impossible to follow along."

Noah leans over toward her to whisper with a smirk, "you've spent so much time with them greybacks you've gotten slow like 'em too."

Quinn purses her lips, choosing not to respond.

"Oh, don't tease her so, Noah!" Rachel admonishes, pushing him back down the veranda steps. "Go make yourself useful elsewhere. Hitch up the horse for these ladies, will you?"

"Consider it done," Sam tells her, grabbing Noah as he leaps down the last few steps. "You ladies have a good visit!"

Watching them walk off back toward the stables, Quinn can't help but feel as though she's just been abandoned.

Brittany is next to shake Rachel's hand, followed by a reluctant Santana. "Hi," Brittany says for them both, and much to Rachel's chagrin it is not the enthused greeting she'd been hoping for from the tall woman. It's rather mellow; even if the blue eyes focused upon hers feel so very curious.

"Brittany and Santana," Rachel looks to them both for confirmation, even though it's unnecessary. Samuel's told her of them, not as much as she wished, and she knows most of her questions were rather invasive but it isn't everyday – or at all – that a couple like them stood before her on her families porch. She's only ever heard whispers of women like them; her father's usually the ones doing said whispering. But even they are reluctant to ever name names or point out a face to her in public.

"It's not so easy for them like it is for us," one of them would always say. "People wonder why they haven't wed, think something strange must be wrong with them."

"People are also foolish and need mind their own asses," the other would quip and the conversation soon forgotten.

Rachel hasn't though. And her smile wanes for the briefest of moments as she looks upon the faces of these two women her fathers could have easily been speaking of. "It's so very nice to meet you both," she says to them and with a blink of her eyes motions quickly toward the far-off front doors. "Come in though! Please! You all must be freezing from such a long walk."

"It was only a few houses down the road," Brittany mentions, confused. Did Rachel truly think that so faraway? Perhaps living in a home so large skewed one's perspective, Brittany thinks. Maybe everything to Rachel should always be great.

Rachel pays her no mind, ushering the woman inside as she continues on, "It's been a dastardly winter thus far, too much snow and ice _everywhere_. We've been lucky of course; there's always been enough wood for our fires and good meals on the table. We know other families aren't so fortunate, especially with times are hard as they are. We give as much as we can, but poor Samuel and his family, they—"

"Dear god!" Santana groans as Rachel takes her coat. "Do you pause to breathe at all?"

"Not usually," Rachel says, unaffected by Santana's biting remarks. Samuel had been more than accurate in his description of her temper, she thinks. He'd also told her to simply not mind it. "I've excellent diaphragm control."

"Me too," Brittany tells her with an easy nod. When Santana gives her an unbelieving stare she supplies, "It's all right if you didn't know, I never told you."

Rachel hardly believes her. "No offense to your supposed diaphragm excellence Miss Brittany, but it's taken me years to gain this level of control."

Brittany squints at her, reluctant to hand over her coat and choosing to hang it upon one of the many hooks herself. "Yeah, I know, I said _me too_ , remember?" And in quieter voice says to Santana, "I think she might be half deaf like you, San."

Rachel bristles. "I also have _remarkable_ hearing."

"Have you even _adequate_ vision?" Quinn asks, arms crossed over her chest as she stares down at Rachel. "Because clearly not otherwise you'd have noticed just how exasperated we are growing here."

"Apologies, I just thought we could engage in some pleasantries before we—" She stops suddenly, a forced giggle choking it's way from her throat. "Judging by the subtle narrowing of your gazes I will infer you care not for pleasantries."

"We do," Brittany says, offhand as she leans back against the wall. "Just not so _many_. Talking to you is like talking to five people at once."

"It's _exhausting_ ," Santana agrees.

"I take it you don't have company often?" Quinn asks.

"As often as _possible_ ," Rachel replies, affronted as she motions for them to follow her into the room she's set for their morning tea. It's a meticulous arrangement, right down to the polished silver of the tongs resting against the sugar plate. "Okay, maybe not often and the more fitting term being sporadic."

"Never?" Quinn corrects, smirking.

Rachel turns sharply on her heel. "I'll have you know it is my horse and cart I am _graciously_ lending to you all from the _goodness_ of my heart."

No one dares to say a word, quietly taking their seats at the small table. Rachel pours them each a cup of steaming tea, her manners verging upon aggressive when she plunks down a few too many sugars in Brittany's tea.

"Look, I'm sorry for all the… incivility," Santana finally decides, hoping she's chosen the right word. At Rachel's smile of gratitude she continues, "It's just that we… I don't know how much Sam told you—"

"He's explained everything, so no need to," Rachel tells her, expression once more confident. "I know it must be hard still, telling others. How much has he told you of who I am?"

Santana relaxes some in her chair, giving a swirl of her spoon around the tea cup. "Just that you live here with your father and—"

"My _two_ fathers. If you'll excuse my bluntness Samuel also mentioned the nature of what you may have to ask me. You both are sparking?"

No one pays any notice to the sheer shock now upon Quinn's face.

Santana drops her spoon with a clang back down to her tea plate. She resists rolling her eyes at Rachel, remembering they are soon to be borrowing her horse, but that does not stop her from saying, "I resent that term to the highest of heavens, _dear god_. Britt and I are not _sparking_ , or courting, or what have you. As it stands I would marry her today if it were allowed but we all know the likelihood of that ever happening is about the same as the frills upon your dress to stop multiplying the longer I gaze on it. Apologies for my _bluntness_ , I just fail to see how anything you could have to say will help us."

She can feel Brittany staring at her, both stunned and delighted. It's not until a familiar hand comes to rest upon her knee that it truly sinks into her mind what she's just said aloud. For once she doesn't feel embarrassed though, even if Quinn seems to be expressing it for her.

Santana half expects Rachel to kick them from her home. She would anyway, she knows, after such an insult. But Rachel is looking at her with utmost understanding, even her smile softening. "You're right, Miss Santana, I cannot help you," she says, pausing for a moment as she leans nearer to the table and looks at both Santana and Brittany before speaking once again. "But I can assure you that you're not alone. Both of you. My fathers and I have lived here happily since my birth and aside from a few very close friends no one is the wiser."

"How does no one question this?!" Quinn exclaims. She can't for the life of her see how an entire town could be blind to the truth of the family living in its largest home.

"They don't flaunt their relationship. To everyone beyond these walls they are merely two good men hoping to raise a motherless girl well," Rachel calmly explains. "She left when I was very young. It became obvious why when they explained upon my seventh birthday the true nature of their pairing. Also because I'm positive they wished to act more themselves at home and not have to duck into a nearby room anytime I passed whilst they were kissing. It's amazing what you'll construe things to mean at that age. I always thought they were hiding gifts for me and simply talking very close about them."

"You've gone off on a tangent," Santana points out dryly.

"Have I?" Rachel asks, thinking back to what she's just divulged. She doesn't believe so but if she's to keep Santana's temper subdued… "Apologies then. I never quite know when I'm—"

"So then one of your fathers was with a woman before?" Santana asks, unwilling to let Rachel carry on for longer than need be. "Your mother, you said?"

"I don't want another woman in our relationship." Brittany whispers to her. Then reluctantly adds, "Quinn's all right I suppose, if we _have_ to choose."

"No, my mother was simply hired to sire me, if you will," Rachel tells her, more than happy to elaborate. "She stayed on for a bit afterwards to help care for me but left before I could form memories of her. She's kept in touch though and I spend almost every summer I can with her in the capitol. We go to the local theater where she performs; I've seen Mr. Lincoln there _twice_."

Quinn though is skeptical of both accounts. "No one found it strange that she just _abandoned_ her child practically?"

"Of course they do! Everyone here thinks her a she-devil of the wickedest ways but it's the furthest thing from the truth," Rachel asserts, waving the notion off. "My fathers don't help matters any, refusing to comment on it all. They secretly _flourish_ in the drama."

"How does any of this then help us?" Santana finally asks, realizing they've been here long enough for their tea to chill and yet have still not heard a word of how Rachel's fathers _manage it all_. So a few close friends know and they don't walk about town with their hands clasped… Santana _knows_ this already. It is the commonest of sense. What she wishes to know more is, " _How are we to live_?"

Rachel sympathizes, she truly does. She asks herself the very same everyday. Though not in the _that_ vein of course, she's not a female lover stowed away or harboring any such feelings in her heart for anyone aside from Fi-... Wishing not to bring forward thoughts of him whilst with company she clears her throat of the swelling that's started to form. "You can be with one another, just as you wish. My fathers consider themselves wed, and that is all that should matter. So long as you're together and surround yourselves with those you trust you will be happy too."

Santana slumps in her chair, letting out a groan. "You make it sound so simple."

Brittany takes her hand. "It is San, I always tell you that."

Santana's gaze finds the unwavering blue of Brittany's, wishing she could feel even an ounce of her faith. "If anyone were to ever find out—"

Brittany squeezes her hand, pulling it close to her own lap. "We'll be _extra_ careful."

"I can't halt how I feel for you Britt. One look at you and anyone glancing our way could see the same," Santana confesses. She spares a look to Rachel and lets out a choked cry. "For gods sake oh Susanna here noticed five seconds after meeting us!"

Rachel's sigh accompanies a nod. "That's something you'll have to work on, Miss Santana. It's incredibly touching how devoted you are to her but it is quite obvious. Maybe think of dying children when you look her way instead."

Santana is a sniffling mess across the table and for all the reassurances Brittany whispers to her Quinn can't believe Rachel has just said anything quite so tactless. "You are helping none, you do realize that?" she asks of her.

"I know what I am saying is upsetting but it is the absolute truth. Unless they move out west and live as nomads amongst the mountain sheep then they _must_ keep this aspect of their relationship secret," Rachel tells her. Not knowing what else to offer in way of words she reaches down and picks a plate from off the table. Holding it out toward Brittany and Santana, she offers, "Scone? I baked them fresh just this morn."

Santana is quick to stand to her feet. Bitterly at that. Brittany remains sitting; not saying anything as Santana strides from out the room with Quinn following soon after.

She plucks a scone from the plate Rachel still holds out.

"She doesn't much like me, does she?" Rachel asks her, wincing after the front door is slammed shut.

Brittany takes a bite of the scone. "Who?"

"Your betrothed."

She chews cautiously, unaccustomed to the sugary taste. "My what?"

Rachel stares at her for a moment, wondering whatever a soon to be doctor could see in a woman with a mind so ill at ease. "Miss Santana," she says slowly, and this time Brittany is staring at her as if the one in need of assessment. "And Miss Quinn for that matter as well. I can see them glaring at me impatiently from just beyond the window. Does Miss Santana always act this way toward new acquaintances?"

Brittany finishes the scone and reaches for another. "Not everyone."

"But she dislikes me especially?" Rachel asks, apprehensive of her reply.

Brittany shrugs. "You're a bit annoying, so yes."

Rachel hears differently. "There's no need to apologize."

"I didn't say I was sorr—"

"It's all right," she says, standing from the table as she collects the used dishes. "Not many people appreciate my company. I'm afraid I come off as pushy and too effervescent."

"Perhaps if you talked less," Brittany tells her, taking the last scone before Rachel can pick up the plate.

"You mean less fast? If I talk less fast?" Rachel asks her, hoping it was simply a matter of pace. Pace could always be corrected.

"No, just less," Brittany tells her truthfully. She also holds up the last bite of her scone and tells her, "And these biscuits aren't so good. I think you might want to practice some more on the recipe before serving them again. They're too sugary and not very fluffy."

Rachel blinks at her, astounded. "They're _scones_."

"That thing I mentioned about talking less? You should try that now," Brittany tells her. She pops the last bit into her mouth and smiles. "Thank you for the advice and I'm sorry about Finn."

There's a clatter of plates as Rachel stumbles against one of the chair legs.

Brittany bites her lip, quickly realizing her mistake. "Look, Rachel, I—"

"You girls were the first guests I've had over since word came…"

Brittany turns around. Outside on the front walk she can see Santana and Quinn amidst the falling snow, glaring up at her through the window and motioning impatiently for her to join them. Just beside the window sits Rachel, the stack of cups and plates haphazardly piled in her lap, looking as lost in that chair as Brittany feels she would be if she were to leave this room alone.

"I don't have anyone here to call a friend aside from Noah and Samuel and they were always more Finns friends than mine," Rachel speaks so softly Brittany almost misses her words entirely. The way she's said Finn's name though… as if the first time aloud since hearing of his death. Brittany pulls out a chair and sits quietly to Rachel's side. "I miss him. We were to suppose to have married in October, did you know? That all changed when he got his letter, understandably. I said goodbye to him from this very spot. And he told me not to cry because he'd write me everyday and be standing here again before I knew it. I'll never marry him. He'll not ever stand before me again. Without him everything seems so… unbearable."

Brittany wishes she'd not eaten all the scones for it seems Rachel could use one.

" _Brittany! Let's go!_ " Santana shouts from the edge of the veranda.

"You best go, I'm just talking too much," Rachel says, sniffling into her handkerchief.

Brittany can't go just yet though. Aside from needing Rachel to show her toward the door, she feels slightly responsible for the tears now collecting in her eyes. She doesn't know how it feels to be without Santana, even the thought of it seems so impossible… but it's real for Rachel. "I know it hurts without him and I'm sorry," Brittany tells her. "You're not alone, okay?"

" _Brittany!_ " Quinn that time.

"I mean, I'm not your friend but Sam seems to like you enough," Brittany says, offering her a hopeful smile.

" _Brittany Susan Pierce!_ " Ah, Santana sounds—

"She sounds unstable," Rachel points out, worried.

"San's fine," she waves Rachel's concern off as they each stand back to their feet. "Anyway thank you for talking to us. It's nice knowing we're not the only ones who feel this way."

"I'm glad at least one of you appreciates it," Rachel tells her, genuinely pleased to have helped.

Brittany hurries into her coat once in the foyer. "And thank you for lending us your carriage! I'll take good care of your horse so don't worry none. He'll be back rested and well. The boys too I hope."

She opens the door, a blast of cold wind whipping her short hair and biting at her ears. Santana, Quinn and the boys stand huddled just at the foot of the veranda steps.

The snow falls so thickly she can barely make out the path at their backs.

Rachel lets out a sigh. "I don't think you all will be heading to Lima just yet."

* * *

The Berry men don't make it back that night as they'd promised their daughter. The news was delivered at dusk by telegram of their delayed return date of week's end. The storm had forced all departures to be put on hold until the snow let up enough for safe travel. In lieu of remaining home by her lonesome, Rachel has invited her old and newfound friends over for an evening of games and song. It lasts all of five minutes before Santana declares she's in need of a drink if she is to make it through the night without bringing harm upon Rachel. Quinn agrees and soon they all settle around a fire in the large hearth of the Berry family den.

Outside the storm continues to rain snow in thick sheets down upon the town. Wind howls with it but the laughter of the group drowns out any of the blizzard's gales. Rachel has brought out a crateful of wine from her fathers' stores in the cellar bellow the home. Four bottles are already depleted in the time since they've sat themselves down, one each by Noah and Santana alone.

She's feeling it now, mind swimming wondrously in her head as she allows herself to fall down to floor and across Brittany's lap. Her whole body feels as if she's engulfed in the clouds above, floating freely and with little care to decorum. She slips a hand beneath Brittany's shirt, running her fingers lazily across her taut stomach.

" _San_ ," Brittany whispers, blushing furiously as she pulls out Santana's hand and keeps it instead firmly twined with her own.

Santana smiles up at her, hiccupping. "Not sorry…" she slurs out.

"Do you want to sing a song maybe?" Brittany asks, knowing Santana is in need of something to keep her focus. She's already tried wriggling her other hand into Brittany's slacks twice. Who knew this much liquor would inhibit her so? Brittany won't admit it, lest Santana try again now, but once they make it back to Lima she'd very much like for a night like this to happen between them when they can be alone.

"A song!" Rachel boasts, her wine spilling from her glass as she raises it high. "Oh dear," she mumbles quickly wiping away the mess from the hardwood floors.

Noah plucks at his guitar drunkenly, a chorus of wrong chords glaring loudly into the den.

" _Sans accompaniment_!" Rachel snaps at him with a pointed stare.

Noah cares not, easily dropping his guitar to his lap and picking up his own glass of wine. If Rachel wishes to sing without his expertise than that just allows for him to deplete more of her wine. He sees no fault in this reasoning.

"No, no, _nooooo_ ," Santana groans out, rolling out of Brittany's lap to point a finger in accusation at Rachel. She misses by a head, pointing to just over her shoulder instead. "You are not singin' another _god damned_ thing."

"This is _my_ home Santana," Rachel reminds her. Even tipsy as she is she remembers to at least put her wine glass down this time as she speaks. "If I wish to entertain you all than it is _my_ prerogative."

"Having suffered through an'our of your _prerog-anive_ I feel I've a right t'watch your dress be devoured in that _fire_ ," Santana growls out as best she's able. "I'll sing the ness song!"

Rachel blinks down at her, squinting with question and affront. "And how exactly? You can barely _speak_ properly anymore."

"Dress in the fire, Berry!" Santana warns her as she pushes herself upright to sit.

Rachel gives a huff of indignation, but makes sure to move to a location in the circle farther from the hearth just in case.

"This son's for Britts," Santana grins crookedly, eyes misty as she looks over to Brittany. Brittany grins at her, but keeps watch out for the empty crate. She's a feeling more than just lyrics will come spilling from Santana's mouth soon.

Quinn hums along as Santana begins, allowing Sam to pull her up to her feet and into a sloppy dance. They giggle all the while.

Rachel tries stopping Santana to give her better vocal instruction, only to be met with Santana's palm pressed square against her face. The second time she tries more nicely only for a glare to be focused upon her, and then abruptly to the fire and back. Upon the third instance Santana looks ready to enact her threat.

Even Brittany stares crossly at her.

The fourth time Rachel begins to open her mouth Santana's patience has expired. With a deafening howl she launches herself across the circle at the cowering woman. They tumble against the side of an armchair, Rachel's screams for help only second in pitch to the barks of laughter that have overtaken Quinn. Brittany scrambles over, grabbing Santana around the middle and dragging her off Rachel kicking and sputtering.

"I think I'll take her to bed!" she shouts to be heard over the string of Spanish Santana has now lapsed to shrieking at Rachel in.

"Yes you will!" Noah titters, giggling right along with Quinn.

"The snow's coming down too hard though," Sam notes as he looks out the window. His breaths continuously fog the glass and too drunk to realize he continuously keeps wiping it away.

"If you promise not to attack me in my sleep you may stay here!" Rachel offers, instantly brightening at her own idea, grinning broadly. "Yes, you _must_ stay here! You'll be the first guests I've ever officially played hostess too! Oh, please say you'll stay?"

Brittany doesn't ever think she's seen anyone so pleased to allow someone so bent upon harming them stay underneath the same roof.

When Brittany's reply doesn't come as quickly as Rachel wants, she elaborates, "We've more beds and it should prove more comfortable and clean… no disrespect to your family Samuel," she throws quickly over to him.

"None taken," Sam grins. He knows it to be true. And the girls would be far more well-off here than back at his, especially now with his parents home. "I think it's a top idea."

"Have a great night _ladies_!" Noah says with bounce of his eyebrows. They pull inward though when Quinn lands a rather hard smack to his arm.

Santana has tired herself out as Rachel instructs Brittany to take the second room along the top hall on the right. "It's already made and should provide a good night's rest to you both… Santana especially," she adds upon the glare Santana has now set her way. She smiles nervously. "Help yourselves to whatever you like!"

"Thanks," Brittany tells her before they leave the den and she helps Santana to climb the stairs. Below they can hear Rachel squealing with joy, gushing about how she'll prepare a splendid breakfast for everyone come morn.

Santana grumbles something more in Spanish as Brittany gently guides her upstairs. The only bit Brittany is able to make out is a repeated phrase of, "En el _fuego_ …"

Once at the top of the stairs she presses a light kiss to Santana's warm forehead. Immediately the ranting quiets from the woman held against her. Brittany allows herself to smile a bit in victory at that.

"It was the second on the left, right?" Brittany asks, grabbing a nearby oil lamp from the hall table. Santana clings to her, giggling as she drapes herself further into Brittany's arms. Her lips graze against Brittany's neck, eliciting a tremble along the arms of the taller woman.

"I don't _remember_ ," Santana purrs, drawing up to capture Brittany's lips with her own. She groans against Brittany's mouth, pressing herself harder into Brittany's body. Brittany struggles to keep them both upright when all she wishes is to collapse to the floor with Santana firmly atop her.

Her free hand fumbles back against the wall, searching for the nearest door. Any room will do, she thinks. Rachel had, after all, said to help themselves to whatever.

The door opens with a click of metal and they tumble inside, Brittany quick to catch Santana and the lamp before they can crash down to the floor. Santana sways in her embrace, legs growing more and more unstable as the strong alcohol floods her veins. She's never had so much; never been so absurdly drunk and so incredibly in need of someone's body against her own. _Brittany's_ , she thinks with a wicked grin and misplaced hitch in her breath. She pulls Brittany down again, lips quick to meld against the other, far more-assured, pair. Somewhere in the back of her mind she berates herself for the sloppy execution. If not for the way Brittany holds her chin she's positive she'd have slipped off by now. There's the soft sound of metal touching upon wood, barely audible over the blood now seeming to rush through her head; her mind craves more of this kiss and oxygen all at once. She's vaguely aware that Brittany's set down the lamp when that second hand presses low against her back and draws her nearer till there isn't a shred of space between them. Her tongue begs entrance almost immediately with a wet slide across Brittany's bottom lip.

Brittany moans, legs shaking as she pulls away for a breath and her back meets the hard wood of the door, shutting it closed with a loud thud. The cool brass of the handle digs into her back, instantly reminding her of the lock she must ensure is in place. But she cannot turn around just yet. Not when Santana is pouting up at her as she is now, the perfect mix of endearing and pitiful.

"Britt…you're too _far_ ," she slurs out in a murmur, reaching for Brittany whom stands no more than a foot away.

Unable to resist Brittany leans over the small gap separating them, appeasing Santana's want with a quick kiss and a whispered, "wait here."

Santana makes a noise of dissatisfaction when Brittany pulls away, but remains as asked whilst Brittany deciphers how best to set the strange lock in place. Hooks, slides and keys she understands, but this? It looks no bigger than a needle prick.

She shoves a hairpin from the nearby dresser into the lock, deciding it the only feasible option. She's pleased when it makes a click and the handle proves unable to twist. She's also pretty sure she may have rendered the lock inoperable, especially when she pulls the hairpin out and a few metal pieces clang to the bottom of the lock.

Nevertheless, no one will be bothering them now.

From at her back she can hear Santana shuffling into a new position, quickly followed by the sneered declaration of, "This room is _atrocious_."

Brittany turns to inspect the room, expecting the worse and surprised when instead she's met with what must be Rachel's bedroom.

"Tell me it's horrid and not jus'a wine speakin'," Santana pleads, nose scrunched at the sight.

Everything is laced with frills and adorned extensively in varying shades of pale yellow, pink and cream. From the large four-poster bed with its carved white supports and pulled-back lace curtains to the yellow hand-painted music notes embellished onto the far flower vase, everything screams of Rachel's taste. "I don't think it so awful," Brittany says and surprises Santana when she wraps her in her arms from behind and whispers down into her ear, "We should sleep here."

"Good god _nooo_ ," Santana shakes her head, slipping away from Brittany's grasp. She stumbles over to the door, intent upon finding them a better room to have sex in than this. Rachel's will _not_ suffice. "I'm not willingly submittin' myself to this torture chamber and the _nightmares_ it's sure to spur." She tries to open the door, only for it to jerk back into place, locked.

"I locked it," Brittany tells her, voice low. " _Maybe even forever_."

Santana shivers at the enticing tone, heat sinking straight to her belly. "And what of it?" she asks, turning to face Brittany. She sways on her feet, almost loosing her balance until Brittany's hands are upon her arms, strong as they hold her upright. "I'm sure the others have eternal locks too," she offers meekly, body already surrendering to the blaze in Brittany's eyes.

Brittany dips down, biting gently at Santana's lips. "There's a private bath," she murmurs, working a path down Santana's neck. Santana falls back against the door with a thud, head rolling to the side to offer Brittany more access. "And Rachel did say to help ourselves to _whatever_ we liked."

"Bri'any Pierce, you are a _devious_ woman." Santana lets out a gasp as Brittany picks her up off her feet. She locks her legs around Brittany's waist. " _I love you_."

"Mmhm," Brittany hums, smiling against Santana's quickly-heating skin. She walks them to the small washroom and sets Santana down atop Rachel's vanity. The tub is empty, unfortunately, but Brittany thinks that's a good thing. Santana, no matter how much she may want her in this moment, would never consent to sharing the same bathwater as their _gracious_ host.

"Water closet," Santana says, pointing off toward the right where a wooden box hangs from the ceiling. She slumps against Rachel's mirror, picking through the woman's small collection of perfumes and powders. She grumbles, jealous, upon realizing, "Is'all French made!"

Brittany stares at the box, confused by the contraption. She can't see it very well, not with the small amount of light the lamp from the bedroom spills into the washroom. Rachel's a few candles scattered about the vanity and she strikes a match to light one, lifting the flame closer to the box for better view. A few pipes seemed to lead up through the ceiling from the box, and one other down toward the tub. A lever hangs down and she's hesitant to pull it yet at once curious as well. "What do I do with this?" she asks.

"Pull it. It's just like the one for a toilet," Santana explains as best she's able. She giggles suddenly, realizing Brittany's never seen a proper water closet before. She laments her thought immediately for that doesn't bode well for her new life on the Pierce farm. No matter, she thinks; she'll pee in a hole if she must. _It will be worth it for her_. As for now, Rachel or her fathers had to have filled the closet recently; she can make out a few drops leaking from out the bottommost pipe. If not enough to fill the tub, there should be enough water to at least wash themselves with.

It is also possibly freezing to the touch.

She doubts they'll be doing much bathing with the way things have been progressing thus far anyway.

She's excited.

She also hiccups again.

"I'm goin'ta have a bath with you," she says aloud, grinning as she works to undo the lace front of her dress.

"That is my hope," Brittany grins. She yanks down on the cord, a might too hard, for along with the water now splashing into the tub the string also rests in her hand. She looks back to Santana, dismayed only to find Santana struggling to free herself from within her dress.

"You're so wallpapered," Brittany giggles, laying the candle to Santana's side so as to help her pull the dress up and over her head. Once off, she tosses it to the floor along with the cord. The cool air of the unheated room slams against Santana's skin and she lets out a gasp when her back meets the equally cold vanity mirror. Brittany moves into place between her legs, pulling her nearer by the hips until Santana's sat at the edge of the table.

"It's cold," Santana whimpers as Brittany's thumbs press into the curve where her thighs meet her hips. Everything grows just a bit blurrier as she does. Slower. _This is very much happening right now_ , she thinks. Brittany is staring at her with peculiar interest, her hands seeming to pause in wait of permission. Santana feels them, hot as ever where they rest against her skin. They'll be doing this at home soon. She draws in a deep breath, hoping her mind clears of the thoughts she feels soon to descend upon her. They've not talked about tomorrow, not really. So much has been left unsaid and whether it is purposeful she knows not. Does Brittany realize what tomorrow will bring? They've not a worry here, but home…

The questions surrounding their future seem almost innumerable.

Santana sways beneath the rising anxiety and swelling effects of the wine. She did not wish such burdensome thoughts forward but they've manifested now.

There is no ignoring them.

Brittany's once-darkened eyes flicker in the light of the candle. She leans closer, now worried for the sudden sobriety that has overcome Santana. "Santana?" she calls her name softly, bringing a hand up to cup one of Santana's now paling cheeks.

"This is _real_." The reply is uttered in broken urgency.

"Um, yes?" Brittany answers, unsure. She doesn't understand why Santana needs to make such a claim. Can't she feel her? "I'm real," she assures her softly, just in case.

"No, I meant…" Santana feels the room spinning and must close her eyes tightly to keep herself from falling. Her hands slam down to the table top, jostling the lone candle enough to plunge the room into relative darkness.

Brittany can barely make her out, just a sliver of the side of her face visible in what little firelight spills in from the adjoining room. She hates not knowing if the choked way Santana's next words come out accompany tears. How is she to wipe them away if she can barely even see the eyes they spill from? Santana's head lowers and Brittany feels more than sees the action. Her palm is still pressed gently against a warm cheek. She knows Santana wishes to say more, and so encourages the words forward with a few soft strokes of her thumb.

Santana wets her lips, yielding as she allows her fears to be heard. "Where we _are_ is real. Tomorrow we'll be in Lima," she whispers, head tilting up just enough for Brittany to know brown eyes search for her own. "With your family…"

Brittany's heart pumps just a tad harder. Santana need not be frightened. "You sound like Rachel did after Quinn tried to keep her from getting more songbooks."

She feels Santana pull away and the subsequent rattle of the mirror as her back meets the surface. "Brittany, they don't _know_ of us," she groans. "What if—"

Brittany can't let her finish such a destructive thought. "It's like you've turned to a mockingbird. They'll love you, I _know_ it," she tells her before any more can be said. Why can't Santana see that? This is all she's wanted too! "You've read Pa's letters." She didn't mean for it to sound so snappish.

"He doesn't _know_ Brittany. _He doesn't_!" Santana whispers frantically, feeling as though she's drowning in this fear all her own. The tears come fast. "What if he spurns me? What then? He won't let me stay and I've _no one_ in Lima but you…I-I'll have to l-leave and live here with B-berry! And I can't live here with her, Brittany! I'll go mad!" _Or kill her_ , whichever prospect presents itself first.

It's an entirely pathetic exclamation, accompanied by even more hysterical tears. But it has broken free of her restraint and she's too tired and too drunk to try and compose herself enough to speak well. She feels a petulant child.

Especially when Brittany starts tucking some of her dark hair back behind her ear.

"You won't because he already knows how amazing you are," Brittany tells her, honest in her admission. There really is nothing for Santana to be so distressed over. She'll see. They'll be home tomorrow and all will be well. But she understands why Santana is crying now, she really does. Whatever unfounded fear she's developed is not her fault. It is _his_. Santana won't ever say so, she never talks about him, but Brittany knows. Santana's been spurned once before, in the most heartbreaking of ways, and like anyone upon this Earth she wishes to avoid that hurt from ever happening again.

"You saw how Burt reacted," Santana whimpers, wiping at her eyes. Her next words are laced in a low growl. "My _father_."

"My Pa isn't like _him_ ," Brittany tells her, pulling Santana into a warm hug. "And Burt came round."

"Only when he thought he was going to lose you." Santana turns her face into Brittany's neck, knowing her tears have smeared against Brittany's skin but simply not wishing to be let go yet.

"I know my Pa, San. He'd not ever hurt me like that," Brittany whispers, her hold tightening as if to ward the thought from crossing either of their minds.

Santana shakes her head, pulling away to tell her thickly, "But that's just it, he won't _think_ he is."

"I won't tell him straightaway okay? We'll give him and Emily some time to get to know you," Brittany promises, her gaze softening. "Don't cry no more, Santana. You won't have to live with Rachel."

Santana's voice raises several octaves as she declares, "I hate her, she's so loud Brittany!"

"She probably always had to be, you know, so that Finn could hear her from way up where his head was."

"She's still awful," Santana mutters, eyes now adjusted to the dim light she pokes at one of the perfume bottles to her side. "And her taste is giving me gooseflesh, I think I've grown allergic, see?"

"Does that mean you don't want to have a bath with me in here?" Brittany asks with a smirk. "Because I still do."

Santana smiles, her eyes growing hazy once more though this time not of alcohol. "I do…I still want to go home with you, Brittany."

Brittany can hear the wishful undertone to her statement. Kissing Santana, she pulls away just enough to tell her, "I know, you're just scared and it's okay."

Santana tugs her back, kissing her again. "I'm not scared."

"You were cryin' about it pretty hard," Brittany says between a chuckle. "My neck's still all wet."

"I just… I just want everything to be good," Santana confesses, wanting Brittany to see the truth of the words as much as hear them. She keeps their gazes locked, hands upon Brittany's cheeks as she continues, "Not okay, or all right, or fine or any of that. I want it all to be _good_. Does that… does that makes sense?"

"If he loves me San, how can he not love you?" Brittany asks, smiling as she runs her own hands down Santana's bare arms. "Everything will be good, you'll see."

_She's always right_ , Santana reminds herself. As Brittany turns to press a kiss against one of Santana's palms, she's asked lightly, "How is it you make everything seem so possible?"

Santana is always saying things to her like that, sweet things that make her feel admirable and worthy of the woman she's fallen for. It's just that every so often one of those things is something she's heard before. This one from someone she dearly hopes is well. "Emily used to always tell me that too…"

Santana wishes she'd never said anything at all. Bringing their foreheads together she hopes to make amends by reminding her, "One more day Brittany. Just one more."

Brittany's eyes fall closed to stop the tears she can feel stinging the corners of her vision. "They _h-have_ to love you, San," she whispers brokenly. "I can't imagine anything different."

Santana holds her close. "Everything will be good," she whispers in promise, pressing an ardent kiss to Brittany's lips. " _You'll see her soon_."

"You're shaking," Brittany whispers between stolen breaths.

Santana nods, unwilling to break the kiss just yet. "I'm just cold."

Brittany stands back upright, voice thickened with want as she whispers, "You won't feel so for long."

Their lips meet soon after, hungry as they push against the other. Brittany quickly works free of her shirt, slacks undone and dropped down to the ground by Santana's hands. She slides down off the vanity, still unwilling to break the kiss, one hand griped to the back of Brittany's neck and the other splayed flat against her stomach. She walks her backward until the backs of Brittany's knees meet the tub and together they fall down inside. The frigid water barely rises above Brittany's waist but she hardly notices the amount or the temperature. Not when Santana's settled herself down atop her and as started to sear a path with her mouth straight down her chest.

The back of Brittany's head knocks against the tub edge, one hand digging into the side, her other tangled at the nape of Santana's neck in dark hair. She feels as drunk as Santana, possibly more so when her vision blurs and teeth rake across one of her hardened nipples.

Before she can even slip her tongue out Santana stills, eyes widening from where she hovers over Brittany's breast.

Brittany's stomach sinks at the look. " _Oh no_ ," she breathes out, turning Santana quickly toward the vanity. The dark head barely leans out past the tub edge when her gut finally empties itself to the floor. Brittany lets out a sigh as she holds Santana steady and ensures none of her hair falls forward. Santana mutters apologies once she's rid her stomach of the wine, utterly mortified and more so shamed to have been the ruinous termination of their bath. Brittany brushes a kiss to her temple and cheek, whispering that all is well. "Just don't drink so much next time."

"I blame Berry," Santana grumbles slumping back into Brittany's arms. She feels tired, disgusting, and yet comfortable all at once. Not wishing to move just yet, she spots Rachel's toothbrush sitting atop a towel near the tub head. Santana reaches over, rubbing some of the bristles against the chalky soap block beside it before shoving it unceremoniously into her mouth.

"San, you'll make yourself sick again," Brittany tells her. " _Rachel_ uses that."

Santana doesn't hear her though for she's passed out against Brittany's chest, Rachel's toothbrush still dangling from the corner of her mouth.

This was not at all how Brittany pictured her night unfolding. But even she must admit Santana looks quite the sight snoozing atop her as she is now. Brushing some hair from over her face Brittany leans forward, kissing her gently on the forehead. "I'll take care of you," she whispers.

Careful so as to not disturb her sleep, Brittany lifts her from the tub, also mindful of the mess Santana's left on the floor.

She tucks her into Rachel's bed, laying the toothbrush at the bedside table in case she worries for where it's gone come morning. And after she's finished cleaning the floor as best she's able Brittany joins her beneath the warm covers, cuddling up to Santana's back and whispering to her of good dreams.

In the morn they pry the door open and walk out of Rachel's room, ignoring the glares given to them by their clearly upset host.

It's not till they are a ways down the hall when Rachel's able to holler at them, "When I said help yourself to whatever I did not _literally_ mean whatever!"

Without stopping, head throbbing in the wake of her hangover, Santana gruffly informs, "You might want to have your water closet re-filled."

"Because we may have used your bath," Brittany supplies in succession. Santana smirks as they begin to make their way downstairs. "And your bed too!" Brittany adds.

For once Rachel Berry has nothing to say.

* * *

**January 3rd, 1863**

Sam is busy tending to the horse cart, readying for their daylong journey to Lima. A few spare blankets are tossed to the bench, one for each woman and, upon Brittany's earlier insistence, another for the horse. He's more than happy to see the girls through this last leg of their travels; he insisted upon it even. He thinks he'd feel rather useless just sitting at home while Noah escorted them along. They'll take turns walking beside the small sled cart borrowed from the Berrys stables. There's not enough room for all five upon the bench, and the women sure won't be forced to relinquish their seats. They've been through too much already, Sam thinks, wanting this last portion of their trip to be as smooth and pleasant as can be given the storm that's just passed through.

The roads may be blocked and a great deal of snow needs to be shoveled from their path, but Sam and Noah are ready. Spirits decidedly high this morning as everyone began to gather just outside the Berry home.

Santana emerges first from the house, a look of blatant irritation upon her face. Her surgeon coat is buttoned up fully and arms crossed tightly over her chest. _Surly as ever_ , Sam chuckles to himself. A very big contrast to the bright yellow scarf adorned around her neck. The vivid color is such a disparity against the dull greys and blues of her dress and coat. She picks at it with a scowl. _Rachel must have forced her to don it_. He actually finds it quite a nice color upon her, though has the wits not to say so aloud.

Brittany is next to pass through the door, a happy smile upon her face as she takes hold of Santana's hand and, not breaking her buoyant stride, leads them both down the stairs. She's a similar scarf about her own neck, entwined with another in a glaring array. Sam thinks it one of the scarves Rachel herself had tried to sew. Brittany seems not to care that it looks as though she was pulled through the costume rack of the local theater. Men's slacks too big for her legs folded twice within her worn boots, excess belt swinging free from around her waist where it's latched to the last hole. She's one of Noah's coats slung across her arm, and one of Sam's old shirts tucked neatly into her slacks.

He can't help but think she looks as if he could be his very, though much slimmer, twin. She throws her arms around his neck once she's close enough, giving him a warm hug in greeting.

"Morning Sam!" she tells him as she backs away and Santana greets him in similar, if more subdued fashion.

"Morning," Santana says, smiling ever so slightly, still recovering from the night and obviously annoyed by the material about her neck.

"Where's your _apprentice_?" he asks, giving her a wink.

"Probably being bombarded by Berry and her closest of hideous scarves," Santana says with an exasperated roll of her eyes. "A _closet_ of them, Sam. Not a drawer. A. Whole. Closet."

"It is _glorious_ ," Brittany grins. "I took the ugliest, you know, so that Rachel won't have to make a fool of herself wearing them anymore. I think Tubbington will enjoy them."

"And what about you Santana? Why the yellow?" Sam asks, amused now.

Santana's face warms as she shares a smile with Brittany. "Her choice."

Quinn bursts from the home next, the door slamming loudly in the frame as she stands upon the veranda, fists and teeth clenched tightly. Santana gives a sigh and leans her back against the cart.

"She's not wearing a scarf," Sam notes, curious.

"She probably strangled Berry with it," Santana says, offhand as she climbs up onto the bench. When Sam gives her a reproachful stare she shrugs. It is a definite possibility after all.

Quinn's eyes find hers from the steps, the fire once burning in deep hazel waning as her shoulders fall back down into her frame. Her steps are far less pronounced as she walks down toward the cart, hesitant even Santana thinks.

"She drives me absolutely mad," Quinn tells them in way of explanation once she's within earshot. "I don't know how I am going to survive this."

"Survive what, exactly?" Santana asks her. "We're _leaving_."

Quinn can't meet her eyes, one of her hands scratches nervously against the horse's side. With a flinch she confesses, "I think I might stay here for a while."

"What?!" Santana exclaims, jostling the cart as she shoots up to her feet.

"Why?" Brittany asks, equally confused. _Quinn would never wish to stay here_ … Her gaze turns back toward the home in hopes for an answer. She can see Noah standing just inside the Berry foyer, Rachel by his side as they wait for the right moment to come down the steps. Santana hasn't noticed though, fuming down at Quinn as she is.

Quinn finally manages the nerve to meet her eyes. She winces again at the withering stare Santana has focused so acutely upon her. "It's only until I've some money saved to come to Lima."

"As if you can't make money in Lima!" Santana scoffs, slamming back down to the bench. She calms after a moment, the slightest of smirks upon her lips. "You're staying for Noah, aren't you?"

An apt question, Brittany thinks. And she feels need to add, "Have you a bed here?"

"Of course she does, Britt." Quinn does not like the sardonic tone of Santana's voice. " _Noah's_."

"Actually, and don't either of you judge me," Quinn tells them both before giving a mild cringe and admitting, "Rachel has offered me a room."

Santana blinks down at her, uncomprehending. "You must be jesting," she says. Quinn despises Berry almost as much, if not more than she. Why would she even agree to this? And for that matter, "When did you even _speak_ with her?"

"After you all headed to _bed_ last night," Quinn points out, her tone quite accusatory. Santana brushes the implication off. She need not confirm how she spent her evening with Brittany to Quinn. Quinn's an imagination; she can deduce it for herself. "Sam and Noah went to fetch some more wine and while they were gone I had the unfortunate pleasure of being left alone with her. Thank you both for that. Truly good of you."

"Oh dear god," Santana drones out, now understanding what's occurred and not at all pleased by the turn of events. "Don't tell me the two of you have developed some clandestine alliance. I will judge you from here to eternity if you've befriended that shrill midget, Quinn."

"I wouldn't call it an alliance and certainly not a _friendship,_ " Quinn tells her hotly. She grows a bit devious as she also informs them, "Though she is compensating me for any outings we take where I pretend to be her acquaintance."

Santana replies almost immediately. "I can respect that," she says, fairly impressed. Perhaps Quinn could make this setback worthwhile after all.

"I think she's lonely," Brittany says after a moment as she scratches gently behind the horse's jaw. He lets out a soft snort in appreciation and Brittany coos at him before turning back to her friends. "And just really wants a friend."

"Britt, love," Santana says calmly. Brittany smiles wider at hearing the endearing term spoken so easily and aloud in front of their friends. "I think you're still a _might_ wallpapered from last night."

Despite the ploy behind Santana's use of the word, Brittany is still thrilled to have heard it. "No, that was _you_ ," she corrects her without pause. Santana's cheeks darken in turn. "Rachel is annoying and all but she's also lost Finn. I can't imagine what that must feel like."

"You won't ever have to," Santana tells her softly.

Brittany gives her a small smile and then turns back to Quinn. "I'm not saying you have to be real nice to her or anything," she says, brow furrowing as she figures the best way to say what she wishes to next. Like always, she just let's her mind speak for itself, "But maybe, until she's not hurting so much, you can accept a little less money for those outings?"

"That's sweet of you Britt," Santana says before scowling back down at Quinn. "I still think you're mad for agreeing to this."

"As soon as I'm able I'll try to visit," Quinn promises. Truth be told, she can't wait to do just that, but she also knows she must stay here. It's not for Noah's sake, or for the benefit of her purse. She won't tell Santana the truth of it either. _Let her think I'm here for the boy_ , she thinks. It's better than either of them knowing she's staying so she won't interfere with _them_. They've so much yet ahead and it won't do well to have her about when Brittany finally tells her family, because Quinn knows Brittany will soon; she'll tell them of how she's fallen in love with the disagreeable doctor.

There will be tears shed, beds most likely shared and hearts predictably broken.

She hopes not though. She hopes Mr. Pierce welcomes Santana with open heart and arms. That the love she shares with his daughter will not seem a burden, wrong or something to be destroyed. Quinn can't help if it were to come to that, not if she were right there with them. Where would Santana go then? All she's ever talked of is returning home to Lima…

Quinn is staying for no other reason than to ensure Santana may have someplace to run _to_.

Santana slips down from the cart to give Quinn a quick hug in goodbye. "You better visit," she whispers. "Or I'll drag you to Lima myself."

Brittany hugs her next, letting her know, "You can sleep with us."

"What she means is in another room," Santana corrects, blushing when Brittany takes her hand. " _Away_ from us."

"No San, _with us_. There's only two beds and I don't think she'll want to sleep with my Pa," Brittany says with a scrunch of her nose. "It'll be real tight though and I might confuse you for Santana but don't you mind," she gives Quinn a confident smile. "I'll figure it out."

Quinn doesn't think her face has ever felt quite as hot as it does currently. Santana's equally aflame as she tugs Brittany up into the cart, muttering, "We'll be going now."

"Bye Quinn!" Brittany waves down to her, then less enthusiastically to Rachel. Noah takes that as he cue to exit and jogs down toward the cart.

"Come within three paces of me and consider yourself the owner of a fresh black eye," Santana warns him.

He merely gives her a sheepish grin in reply.

Sam laughs, not quite truly understanding all that's transpired but happy to know Quinn will be staying with them in Marysville. Perhaps he might catch her eye? That is, he knows, if Noah hasn't already. He sets the horse trotting at a leisurely pace down the snowy roadway. He may be missing an arm but in sheer charm he thinks he has Noah bested. And Quinn is certainly worth a bit of friendly competition.

Upon the bench Santana throws a blanket around her shoulders and Brittany's, sliding closer until their sides are pressed against one another. She takes Brittany's hand, squeezing tight.

"Soon, Britt," Santana whispers into her ear.

Brittany's smile is the widest Sam's ever seen it as she sits back along the bench. For she's finally, _finally_ , going home.


	23. Lima

Brittany should be smiling. There should be sharp knocks echoing against the floorboard where her feet tap with restless anticipation. She should be thrilled, giddy and practically _squirming_ in the seat beside her. Instead she's gone eerily quiet next to Santana. The once wide grin upon her face all day disappeared, right around when the first farmhouse on the outskirts of Lima came into view.

That's also when her fingernails dug deeper into Santana's palm, the grip both strong and unsteady. Nervous. Scared.

She's not uttered a word since they arrived.

Santana too has quieted alongside her, fidgety with nerves born of meeting the family she's come to consider her own for some time. The closer they draw to the Pierce farm the further lodged in her throat her heart feels.

She shifts again on the hard seat, wondering how it was comfortable mere hours prior. Brittany squeezes her hand harder and, if possible, her face drains of color more.

Neither says a word.

Sam and Noah know more than to make mention of the silence that's fallen over the two women. They share a look over the horse's reins, hiding their concern and sighs from eyes that have yet to uncloud. Whenever a direction is needed, Noah asks, softly so as to not to startle Brittany. She nods her answer silently, mouth gone dry.

The final turn onto her family's cart path has her leaning closer to Santana and whispering anxiously, " _We're here."_

Santana holds Brittany's hand with both of her own. The pound of her heart as present in the throbbing pulse at her fingertips, as it is where it strikes hard in her chest. The snow is untouched along the path, pristine and deep as Sam and Noah guide the horse up the slope toward the farm. A few trees dot the land, bare now and sprinkled with ice. Some are massive, Santana easily imagines Brittany climbing them when she was younger. Others smaller, newer saplings peek out from beneath the layer of snow reaching toward grey skies above. Santana doesn't notice her breath fogging just beyond her lips until now. The heavy and obvious exhales echo in her ears verging upon uncontrolled.

"You've a lot of land here, Britt," Noah mentions, impressed as his eyes scan across the farm. Not far in the distance, he can make out the end of the empty crop field where a line of spruce trees curve back across the hillside.

"It's real fine," Sam adds, equally sincere.

Brittany pulls her lips in between her teeth, nodding, proud and trembling. Her eyes immediately dart to the left, where sure enough between the trees she can just begin to make out the side of her family's barn. It's not changed, not one shutter on the doors faded, or one panel of the dark wood near the horse stalls splintered. Her eye catches on some movement near the loft. She smiles shakily, heart warming as the old scarf she and Emily once tied about the old hay crane billows in the light wind.

_He hasn't taken it down._

Santana watches the expression upon Brittany's face brighten and the beginnings of tears begin to fill blue eyes. The fingertips once pressing so nervously into Santana's palm loosen, and slowly thread between her own. Brittany turns to her, grin quivering as it widens and she whispers, hope returned, " _She's okay_. She's still _here_. He wouldn't have left it."

Santana presses her lips tightly together to keep from saying anything that could take away the light in Brittany's eyes. _We'll find out together_ , she thinks, returning Brittany's enthusiasm with a small smile of her own. Her gut is still entrenched in nerves, voice as unwilling to offer a word in agreement as she is to let go of the comfort she draws from Brittany's hand. This is her anchor. This one touch is what keeps her mind from berating her over such a show of cowardice. It sparks the beautiful feeling that blooms in her heart as she looks upon the quaint farmhouse they approach. The warm, steady hand in hers keeps the fear from touching her expression and instead fills her own eyes with a shimmer similar to the one in blue.

Santana shudders. Nervous and hopeful.

This is her home. _Their_ home.

The single story cabin with the slanted roof, weathered window frames and the charming front porch. Where she'll spend nights sitting along the worn railing with Brittany watching the sun set beyond the cornfields. The front steps where she's sure Pip must sleep and where she'll find Brittany pulling a hissing and scratching Lord Tubbington out from beneath the front steps. The home with only an old stout stool set against the outside wall for furnishing. A seat she'll take as she ties up her snow boots before heading to the barn for morning chores. Where Brittany will kiss her and cleverly re-tie her laces and tell her she loves her even when Santana can't remember how simple a knot it really is.

Brittany shoots up to her feet beside her, jostling the sled and Santana's thoughts as she shouts out across the yard, "Pa!"

A man she's never noticed before now stops in his tracks a few dozen yards ahead by the home. The horse he leads halts by his side, the same one Brittany's described to her in such detail that Santana feels she has already seen him before. Apple gives a snort, a cloud of warm breath tickling Hendricks's hand as he looks down across the snow-covered lawn to where he swears he heard his eldest daughter's cry.

The reins drop from his hands as his eyes meet her face.

Brittany lets out a laugh, more a stuttered gasp in excitement, before turning down toward Santana. Watery-eyed and beaming she gives one last squeeze to Santana's hand and then leaps off the sled, taking off toward her father across the shin-deep snow. She stumbles some in the thicker patches, Hendricks's laughter soon joining her own as he runs to meet her. Santana can see Brittany's tears staining her cheeks, similar to the ones just touching upon her father's bearded face. He sweeps her into his arms, choking upon the words he wishes to speak and the swelling of his heart that feels as though it will burst straight through his chest. Brittany clings to him as he cries, knowing how truly she's been missed. How much of home is simply just being once more in his embrace. She feels it flooding her; a part of her returned that's been gone for so long. She calms before he does, giving a shrug and a chuckle as he twists a few strands of her shortened hair between his fingers.

Before she can even utter a word he pulls her into his arms again, hugging her tighter than ever before.

She can feel him shaking. "I'm okay, Pa," she tells him softly. "I'm home."

And Santana watches them, unable to move, feeling more separated from Brittany than she's ever felt before.

Noah catches the look upon her face, and after sharing a silent word with Sam lays a calm hand to her knee. She startles at the touch, eyes wide as she meets his gaze. "Go on, then," he says to her with a reassuring grin. "Don't keep her waiting."

"I…what if he—" Santana mutters, the cold air finally piercing through her clothes to sting her skin and throat. She tugs tighter on the scarf. Her heart stops when Brittany points to her and shares a smile with her father. He motions for Santana to join them. For all of them to warm themselves inside by the fire.

"Santana," Noah ventures, holding out a hand to help her from the sled. "All will be well, you'll see."

She's reminded of drag harrows and promises whispered beneath thin sheets.

After a moment's hesitation, she takes his hand.

Brittany is tucked comfortably at her father's side beneath his arm, her eyes locked upon the terrified brown that slowly approach her. She gives Santana a warm smile, hoping to ease some of the other woman's obvious anxieties. Santana truly looks as though she will hurl if she is to take another step further.

Brittany steps out from beside her father and makes her way toward the now stopped woman. Grabbing Santana by the hands and grinning broadly, she pulls her forward to meet him. They've an entire conversation without words in the span of the few feet they bridge. The subtle knotting of a dark brow conveys the ache of fear. A sharpening of blue eyes a promise of good to come.

_What if he spurns me?_

_I'm right here._

_I've no where else…_

_You've me. I love you._

_I love you, too._

She's standing before Brittany's father before she feels ready, unable to meet his tear stained gaze for more than the tick of pocket watch. Her tongue darts out quickly to lick her dry lips, unsure of what to say let alone do. Was a handshake sufficient? What could one even say to the father of the woman you've fallen so irrevocably for? To the man you feel indebted to just by the mere look of appreciation and sheer _welcome_ you glimpsed just now in his eye?

Brittany squeezes her hand again as she turns up toward him. "Pa? This is Santana," she speaks with such enamor that Hendrick is taken aback but for a second. He expected nothing less from her truly, not his Brittany. Not with her big heart. Brittany's letters always spoke so very highly of the now uneasy woman standing so tensely beside his daughter. He smiles down at Santana. "She's going to live with us now."

Brittany's words are barely from her mouth when he gives Santana an equal welcome.

Santana lets out a squeal of surprise as she's lifted from her feet and into warm arms. His disheveled beard scratches against the side of her face, something that would typically cause her revulsion but now feels as coveted as the embrace. She's never been hugged by a man like this, not by anyone aside from Brittany. Not as if unconditionally adored. Her eyes fall close and she wills herself not to cry as she hugs him back with matching vigor.

"Good," he whispers, hugging Santana close. She can hear the waver in his voice, so unused to such emotion being spoken so honestly to her ear from a father. And his next words spring more tears to her eyes, ones she doesn't mind letting be known as he lowers her gently back to the snow. "You're as much a part of this family as my girls."

Brittany's hand comes to rest at her lower back, discreetly and unnoticed by Hendrick as they already stand impossibly close beside one another. He wipes at his eyes, chuckling as he looks down at both women.

"You must think me a mess of a man," he says.

"You're a little dirty, Pa, but it's okay, you always kind of are," Brittany tells him.

He grins, eyes ever so gentle as he steps forward and presses a long kiss to the top of her head. "I'm so glad you're home, sunshine."

Brittany hugs him again. "Me too."

"Come on," he says as they part, stepping between the women to drape his arms behind their shoulders. "Let's get you both inside. Emily'll be beyond herself to see you! You're hungry, aren't you? And the boys with you too I bet! I think I can manage a stew for tonight. Does that sound good?"

He rambles on as they walk up to the home. Rambles in the same way as Brittany, Santana reflects with a smile. Hendrick waves for the boys to follow, which they promise to do once they tend to the horses, a gesture of kindheartedness Hendrick is delighted his daughter has found in her friends.

The world is so much in need of good right now.

There is also so much that needs to be said. Countless things he wishes to apologize for and anger he's felt for so long, now gone with just the slightest hint of a smile forming on Brittany's lips. He's missed her so. That smile especially, for it's all her mother's. He catches her sharing a look with Santana, sees the slightest tinge of blush spreading upon her cheeks at the silent reply the doctor provides. He pulls them closer to him, laughing for he can't think of a more wonderful feeling than the one settling in his heart now. To see his daughter home, alive and well, and accompanied by such a devoted friend.

* * *

Hendrick takes them straight to the bedroom Brittany once shared with her sister. The door is closed, handle still warm from when Hendrick entered last. Brittany's fingers grip the metal as she stands poised just outside, listening for the sound of her sister's movement within.

"Sleeping last I checked," Hendrick tells them both, voice quieted with more than just the worry of waking Emily. He nods down toward the small tray set up on the seat of an old chair along the wall.

A few empty medicine bottles lie against the tray bed, the last remnants of some liquid visible inside the smallest. As Santana picks up one of the cloth masks lying on the tray her eyes scan across one of the labels. _Digitalis_. Medication usually only prescribed to the more ailing and _elderly_ of patients.

It helped control irregular heartbeats.

One of the more destructive symptoms of pneumonia.

When Santana looks to him for confirmation, he gives her a nod, though his eyes soften as he moves his gaze to Brittany and then back upon her own. "Let her see her first," he whispers to her so as to keep the news from reaching Brittany's ears.

Santana understands. She knows it will be difficult to tell Brittany, but telling her now would only make matters worse. _Let her have the reunion with a peaceful mind. However much happiness she's able to muster._

Hendrick hands the remaining cloth to Brittany, giving her a sad smile as he looks to the closed door. "She's been waiting for you."

Both women hear the words he's left unsaid. He fears Emily hasn't much time.

Masks secured, Brittany opens the door. And with Santana at her back, she enters inside the bedroom she once shared with her sister.

The door is closed with a soft click by Hendrick, the once welcome sounds of the home replaced by the rattled breaths of Emily filling the small room. They don't make it in very far, each halting in their steps as a chill breeze wafts in through the small crack Hendrick has purposely left open in the window.

 _Give her access to fresh air always, never allow the room to stale_ , Santana recalls writing in one of her letters.

There's no fireplace with which to bring much needed warmth to the room. Just the the heavy layer of thick blankets strewn over the bed and tucked around its sole occupant. The meager light of the waning day streams in through the window, playing against the shadows cast by the oil lamp atop the bedside table.

A soft radiance is given by each source, yet barely enough to see the face of the youngest Pierce sleeping restlessly beneath a mound of quilts. She can hear Brittany taking a sharp breath just in front of her, and feels the hurt in her chest just as Brittany must feel it within her own heart. And while Brittany quickly moves to span the space separating her from Emily's side, Santana remains standing by the closed door, too dazed to move.

Santana has tended to countless sick. The sight of them has become routine, from the simplest cases of common cough to the most devastating of illnesses and injury. She always put her bravado up, not allowing herself the involvement she knows could cause her judgment to wane if emotions were brought forward. She has faltered in this she knows, brief memories surfacing as her mind reeled during the first wave of wounded men pouring into the medical tent. How hopeless she felt standing amidst the chaos at first, not knowing for once just what to do. To the way her hand shook before she took her knife to Sam's arm. The way she trembled when tending to Brittany's wound…

Each instance gave her pause, but not in the way she's taken pause now. She hasn't yet moved, her gaze riveted to the frail body bundled beneath the heavy cover of quilts in the bed. Nothing she's witnessed compares to the sight of young Emily Pierce sleeping. To the way her chest rises and falls with stuttered breaths, skin almost as pale as the alabaster of the porcelain bowl set aside on her night table and just as damp as the cloth draped over its side.

She's sick, beyond the help Santana or _anyone_ could ever provide her and this reality alone clenches her heart so tightly.

Emily has been fighting for so long now…

And the way Brittany looks back to her, as if _begging_ her for a way to make this right.

Santana turns her gaze away, choosing to focus her eyes instead on the small piles of books scattered around Emily on the bed. Some lie open, pencil markings evident along their margins. From the titles Santana's able to gleam along a few spines Emily has obviously taken a liking to poetry. _Has she always enjoyed them?_ She knows so little of the girl and yet feels as though Brittany has spoken of her endlessly.

And how she looks just like Brittany…

Santana readjusts the mask over her lower face as she takes a tentative step further into the room. Brittany is already sitting at Emily's side, hand gently brushing some hair back from over her sisters heated forehead. She presses the cool cloth against Emily's brow, lightly, careful so as to not wake her sister from the rest she knows her body must crave.

"She looks so cold," Brittany whispers, aggrieved.

Santana can't meet her expectant look yet, not when she knows what the lament in Brittany's voice truly means.

Emily looks cold, for Emily is near death.

"I'm so sorry, Brittany," Santana manages to say, voice choked as she places a hand over Brittany's shoulder.

"We'll help her get better," Brittany says, nodding as if willing herself to believe the words. She turns her head, eyes imploring of Santana as she asks, "What does she need? More medicine? More air? What can we do? San, _please, tell me_?"

"We let her rest," Santana answers after a moment, tugging up on Brittany's arm. She can't stand in this room any longer, she feels she can't breathe. The mask is suffocating.

Brittany doesn't move though, unable to look away from Emily. "But she is resting…"

"Time then," Santana tells her quickly, growing lightheaded. "She needs time."

"She's had _six_ _months_." Brittany is angry, the air somehow thicker and Santana's lungs starved for the cool chill of winter night.

"She's pneumonia, Brittany," Santana says, heart pounding as she pleads with Brittany to rise from the bed with one last tug. "And by the look of those bottles outside she's not any medicine left."

Brittany stares down at Emily, silent for a beat. The muscles in her arm tense and Santana can feel them tightening beneath her hold. "Then I'll get more," she whispers with conviction. "Whatever it takes. She's _alive_ , San. I can't give up. I just—"

"I know." Santana closes her eyes, breathing deeply as she tells her, "However I can, I'll help."

Brittany looks up at her, eyes crinkling with the smile Santana cannot see beneath the mask. "She'll be okay?"

"First thing come morn, I'll find the doctor and see if I may offer him assistance in exchange for what Emily needs," Santana explains. Her gaze falls upon Emily, softening as she realizes there's not much she can do in way of Brittany ever seeing Emily on her feet… but she can make her comfortable. She can make this easier… for everyone.

She feels sick again, needing to leave.

She hates that Brittany will watch her sister die.

It's still so hard to breathe.

Brittany is staring at her with such hope now. Swallowing down the lies she could offer, Santana tells her instead, "I'll find a way to make this better, Brittany. I promise."

Brittany stands then, pulling Santana into a close hug. And even with the mask tied around her face she still presses a kiss to the spot just below Santana's ear, whispering of her love and thanks.

* * *

Hendrick fills them a bath, something each of them is in dire need of and more than happy to be left alone to together. When Santana stammers in question as he closes the door Brittany merely offers a subdued shrug as she begins undoing the buttons of her shirt. "Emily and I always shared." There is something off in her voice when she says it. Solemn. Brittany stares at the water for a long while, not moving, not even looking as if she's breathing.

A thought, dark and unwanted has surfaced from a place in her mind she's so tried to ignore since returning home.

_Emily won't ever be strong enough to have a bath again._

Santana has to help her from the rest of her clothes and even the kiss they share doesn't cease the torrent of thoughts now emerging.

_She won't swim in the lake anymore._

The water is tepid inside the old cast iron horse trough as they settle down inside, a product of having cooled during the multiple trips it must have taken Hendrick to fill it. They don't dare let a touch linger too long, nor venture too far. Lips brush against skin but barely for a moment long enough to satisfy. The door lacks the lock needed for the privacy they desire. The feeling Brittany wishes to loose herself in.

_She won't get to see Santana open her practice._

Brittany sinks lower in the water until she can feel the suds along the surface tickling at her nose. It feels good though; to finally wipe the grime from their bodies and relish in the scent of freshly washed hair.

She's at least this knowledge to hang onto to, especially now with everything else seeming to fall apart.

It's been so long since Brittany's been able to run her fingers through long, untangled tresses. So long since Santana's tasted of the skin against Brittany's neck without a hint of dirt and sweat lingering afterward on her tongue. And as much as Brittany enjoys and returns the affection, her thoughts stray to her sister. She grows more still as the water cools, eyes clouded with a look Santana's not yet seen upon blue. Despondent, deeply so.

_She won't live much longer…_

As Brittany empties the water down out through the valve drain to the wall outside, Santana wraps her arms across her middle, hugging her from behind and whispering of days they'll soon have to share a proper bath.

When all is well.

Brittany can't quite make herself believe the words. Not when she's figured out what that look in Santana eyes really meant when she sat beside Emily.

She can't help Emily. No one can.

* * *

They have dinner together. It's not a grand affair like the feast Rachel prepared them just the night prior, but nice given the lengths her Pa went to make it for his guests. The soup is watery, bland, and more potato broth than beef stew. Brittany prods at the bits of the starchy vegetable floating in her bowl, appreciative yet unable to eat. Everyone she loves is sat around her, everyone aside from the one person unable to join them.

It's bittersweet, sharing a meal with them all and knowing her sister lies dying not a room away.

A soft touch of a sock against her foot raises a silent question. She need not look to her left to know Santana is trying to catch her attention. She can feel the worry in the gaze Santana's fixed upon her face. Her father is giving her the same from across the table.

"Brittany, you've not touched your supper," he says quietly.

She cannot stomach another bite. Not with her gut twisting, sick with thoughts of her sister.

"Britt," Santana whispers, the heat of her palm sears through the material of Brittany's slacks. The touch burns unnecessarily, shooting straight up into her chest where it blisters inside her heart.

Brittany pushes away from the table and stands to her feet, not meaning to have sprung up quite so suddenly. She grows lightheaded momentarily, breathing harder but for a second. Noah and Sam stand ready to catch her should she fall, each man wearing matching expressions of concern. Yet none more so than the look her father now gives her, eyes wide with worry as they dart between her own.

"I," she begins to say, her voice a mere croak of sound. She clears her throat, offering those at the table a small smile as she takes a step away from the suffocating feeling of being so near them all. "I just need to check on the horses," she settles on once she can focus from a few feet away. Santana looks as if she's preparing to join her and so Brittany quickly motions for her to remain. "It's okay, I'll only be a minute or so. I'll sleep better knowing they're both warm."

She ignores the feel of all their stares as she leaves the kitchen, but they care for her, and it makes leaving them all the worse. She feels a horrible friend, a pathetic daughter, a dishonest lover.

Yet none of her guilt and sorrow is more so prevalent than the feeling of soon to be without a sister.

The cold air slams hard against her face as she exits the home, clearing her mind and numbing the painful stirrings in her chest.

They are warm of course, the horses that is. Each draped with a cozy blanket inside a stall with fresh hay. Apple is pleased to see her, giving a clomp of his hoof and soft snort as she nuzzles against his neck.

"I've missed you too," she smiles into his fur, eyes wet with tears. She cries against his neck for a long while.

It is nice to steal away, if only for a moment. The barn air is chiller than that inside the home, fresher somehow even with the smell of the pigs and cows locked inside their pens for the long winter night. Even Lord Tubbington pays her his greetings, rubbing up against her legs as she exits Apple's stall.

"You know, it's not so hospitable to disappear from your guests for so long," Noah says, smiling cheekily from where he stands reclined against one of the barn doors.

Brittany squats down, scratching beneath the cat's fat jaw. He purrs at her, pleased and rubs his side against her leg once more. "I just wanted to check on them," Brittany tells him, giving the cat one last scratch before standing upright once more.

Noah pushes off from the door, stepping further into the barn. "For near an hour?" he asks her, concerned as he approaches. Brittany knows what he'll ask her next even before the words leave his mouth. "Britt, why'd you really come out here?"

She sighs, glancing over his shoulder to where she can see her home; the windowpanes lit with the glow of lamps in every window save for one. "Everyone was so happy and I just…" Brittany trails off, her gaze returning to his, now brimming with fresh tears. "I'm so scared for Emily."

Noah reaches forward, placing a gentle hand along her arm. "You don't have to be," he tells her softly. "You know Santana's going to do all that she can for her."

She nods, wiping away the water from her eyes. "I know but she's just so _sick_."

"Brittany," he says her name the same way her father does. The same way Santana does before arms pull her in and whisper to her how all will be well.

 _All won't be well,_ she knows now. "She's dying and I can't… I can't do _anything_ for her."

Noah steps forward, quickly wrapping her in his arms as another choked sob works its way from her throat. "You're _here_ ," he whispers to her earnestly. "That matters more than you know."

Brittany whimpers, burying her face against his chest. "Wh-what if it's not enough?" she asks, voice muffled and broken. Noah holds her closer. " _I don't want her to die_."

He doesn't know what to say.

He feels he should fetch Santana, that _she_ should be the one to soothe Brittany's sorrows. Just as she always does. But he hasn't the heart to leave his distraught friend now, not even for the short time it would take to bring her the arms she clearly desires around her instead of his own. He'd come to find her all on his own, hoping to coax her back inside with a smile and a well-placed quip. Santana had warned him to give her more time. He hadn't expected Brittany to fall so fast.

And all he can seem to recall as he holds her now is how she sat by his side that night he cried, consumed with grief over Finn's death whilst the rest of the men of camp shouted their cheers of victory into the starry sky. She never said a word to him, none were needed after all. He'd only wanted to feel, remember and mourn. All she offered was an arm around his shoulders, a solid grip, the only thing keeping him from drowning in the overwhelming loss. He'd not ever cried in front of another soul before then.

Brittany's not lost her sister yet, and he knows he won't be here if it should come to that. So he'll hold her for as long as she needs. Quiet and steady.

He hopes Santana won't have to do the same.

He prays her skills in medicine are well enough to keep any more tears from Brittany's eyes.

* * *

Santana is not dense. She could see the way Brittany continued to grow more and more withdrawn during their bath and then more so at dinner. And when she hadn't returned after some time Santana was more or less ready to slip on her coat and head out in search of her. But Hendrick had stopped her before she could even think to move from her spot opposite him at the old chess table.

"She gets that way sometimes. Disappears for a while," he said to her as he moved a pawn across the board. He glanced up toward her, sighing inward. "She'll be back, just let her be."

She finished the game with him, trying to be as pleasant as possible even given the unease she could feel for Brittany in her gut. She'd promised Brittany to give her time with him to know her better. It wouldn't do well to squander it now, not when he'd invited her to join him in play. Brittany had probably gone down to the lake and with night upon them Santana knew she hadn't the skills to track her in the dark. She sat with the men for a time after, happy to listen to Sam play her a few of the songs he'd learned on his harmonica and then to both her friends regale her with tips and tales of what she should expect now that she was to live on a farm.

She wasn't really listening though, attention held by the door she was waiting for Brittany to re-enter.

She doesn't remember which of the boys made mention of her drifting eyes first, but Noah was the one to ask her if he should fetch Brittany back. Even he could sense she'd been wanting to herself, but out of respect to Mr. Pierce she'd given Brittany the time she'd obviously needed.

"It's fine," she told him, waving his offer aside despite wishing for him to do nothing more than what he's requested. "Let's just give her some more time. She'll come when she's ready."

"It's been an _hour,_ Santana," Sam had noted, hushed. "And it's mighty cold out there."

Santana glanced over her shoulder, spotting Hendrick standing at the kitchen window staring gravely out toward the barn.

"Go," Santana had told Noah. "But if she wants to stay…"

"I'll not bother her for long," Noah assured her.

They returned together not long after, Brittany's ears, cheeks and nose tinged pink with cold and her eyes red from heavy tears. Brittany wanted nothing more than to sleep. Santana wanted nothing more than to hold her until the pain disappeared from her eyes.

She can't do that now though, not sharing a bed with Brittany whilst Mr. Pierce sleeps not mere feet away on the floor.

Hendrick snores loudly in his makeshift bed of blankets along the floor. Brittany listens fondly; having entirely missed the sound she once considered so grating. Santana lies as far apart from her as is humanly possible, something Brittany knows she does for the benefit of them both and yet she's still want for her to scoot closer. The bed feels far to large without Santana curled at her side.

Throwing caution to the wind Brittany slides over, closing the space separating them.

"Britt, _we can't_ ," Santana hisses, trying to subtly untangle herself from the warm embrace she now finds herself confined within. The bed creaks. Santana's blood runs cold, her body frozen beneath the thick quilt. She can just barely make out Hendrick's shape beneath a similar quilt, his breaths _thankfully_ rising and falling slowly. Warm lips press against her forehead and as always her body succumbs to the one at her side, her eyes falling close as she breathes in the clean scent of Brittany's skin. She swears the simple kiss unravels the knots creased in her back, her body growing slack as Brittany pulls her closer until there's not a breadth of space between them.

"He's sleeping San," Brittany's voice is no more than a brush of air against her cheek. "It's all right."

Her heart stops beating so fast, returning once more to its relaxed rhythm. Santana inhales deeply, the scent of fresh soap filling her senses as she rests her forehead just beneath Brittany's ear.

"If he wakes?" she asks, fingers tangling in the loose collar of Brittany's nightgown.

Brittany's hand stills the one along her neck.

"It's all right," Brittany repeats, this time softer. "Please?"

She just needs to be near Santana. To hold her.

To truly believe the words she's just spoken are real.

Because no matter how much they echo in her head, she can't will her heart her make them true.

Even when Santana repeats them to her as she begins to cry anew.

* * *

**January 4th** **, 1863**

The dawn light barely fills the westward facing room. Groggy, Santana wakes, tired from the night spent whispering words of comfort and hope to Brittany. She'd finally fallen asleep after a while, fretful at that. Santana's relieved to see her at peace now, curled into her side where they share the same pillow. She steals a glance over her shoulder, doubly relieved to find Hendrick missing from his bed.

She'd not be able to do what she wishes otherwise, which is lay a faint kiss to the corner of Brittany's mouth. She doesn't stir, still deep asleep as Santana pulls back. Not wishing to wake her, Santana works to untangle herself from warm arms.

There are a couple dresses folded in wait atop the dresser that she recalls never being there as they settled to bed the night before. Smiling, Santana realizes Hendrick must have left them out for them. And also, with a hint of blush on her cheeks, that he must have seen them sleeping. She hopes their closeness didn't plant a seed of doubt in his mind. Santana had been so careful to ensure the quilt covered them clear up to their necks.

Her fingers brush against the fabric of one of the dresses. _They must all belong to Brittany_. The thought brings a soft smile to her face _._ She picks up the nearest, letting the smooth material unravel to reveal it's shape. It must be one of Brittany's work dresses, she thinks, spotting a few dirt stains near the knees and torn fragments along the hem. It smells of grass and hay and days spent hanging to dry in the sun long ago.

Exactly the smell of home Santana has always imagined.

She slips from her nightclothes and into the dress without second thought. A thick belt buckled around her waist ensures some of the long length will not touch too far down her ankles. With one last long glance placed down to Brittany, Santana leaves the bedroom, ready to embark upon her life at the Pierce farm.

The boys are sat at the kitchen table, engrossed in talk of plans for their return to Marysville that morning when Santana enters. The smell of oatmeal cooking on the stove has another smile, this one far more relaxed, pulling across her lips.

"I see _you_ slept real good," Noah teases as she takes a seat beside him.

She offers him a kick beneath the table in answer.

"Morning Santana!" Hendrick greets her as he shakes free of his coat and lays it to rest over one of the empty chairs. There are bits of hay still stuck to his slacks. Morning chores, Santana recalls. Brittany always tended to the animals…

He checks upon the bubbling oatmeal in the pot as he asks, "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you," she tells him, giving Noah a pointed stare before her eyes catch upon the steaming dark liquid in the cup held in his hand. She perks instantly. "Is that coffee?"

"Tea, actually," Hendrick replies before Noah can. Sam pours her a cup, still looking tired himself when his smile is smothered by a yawn. "In your last letter you mentioned it being good for Emily's throat."

And just like that, her mood dampens. "How is she?"

Hendrick runs a hand through the thin thatches of hair on his head. "You saw her yesterday," he says with a heavy sigh. "She'll not be the same again, will she?"

Santana shifts, uncomfortable, in her chair. "It's hard to tell," she tells him, watching as he pours some of the oatmeal to a bowl set up upon a familiar tray. He's a strong man, Santana knows, the build of a hard worker evident in broad shoulders and thick arms. Yet he looks pained as he reaches for the tray, as if the burden of its weight shall prove too much to bear. Santana stands suddenly. "Here, I'll take that in for her. Is she up?"

Hendrick looks appreciative of the offer. With a nod he hands Santana the tray. "She is. And she's very much looking forward to meeting you," he says, and despite the warmth in his voice his eyes remain troubled. "I best get Britt up, she can sleep till the sun's high in the sky whenever she's in my bed."

Santana watches him go, holding the small bedside tray close to her waist. The three friends remain silent, simply listening to his footsteps as they disappear into the back hall.

"I can't imagine what he must be feeling," Sam is the one to voice their thoughts aloud.

"Britt is real torn up about it," Noah says, mindful to keep his tone hushed. He looks up toward Santana, sympathetic. "I'm sure she told you what she said to me in the barn."

"She hasn't," Santana tells him, swallowing thickly. "There was no need…"

Sam rises from his chair, wishing to give her a hug but instead placing a solid and grounding hand to her arm. "We'll pray for her, okay?"

Santana lets her chin fall as she nods. It's all that can be offered anymore.

* * *

She finds herself standing outside Emily's door, simply staring at the wood and listening to the soft hum of the song the girl inside has begun to sing. She knows the words, instantly recognizing the poem from within the pages of the book she glimpsed at the night before. One she too owned during her days as a schoolgirl in Cincinnati. But whereas her own voice rose in strength, Emily's wanes, interrupted by a cough and then followed subsequently by a string of muttered and tired curses.

Balancing the tray against her hip, Santana knocks softly on the door. "Hi, Emily, it's Santana, I have—"

There's some quick shuffling and a squeak of elated surprise. "Oh! Please, come in! No need to knock!" Emily's voice is hoarse, unused, but also welcoming. Santana pushes the door open slowly, peeking her head inside first to ensure the young girl truly wishes her entry. Emily is sitting up in the bed as best she's able, Hendrick obviously having helped the girl up early this morning and given her a fresh blanket. She's still as pale as ever, her breathing just as wheezy. But her smile is all Brittany, ever so wide and ever so bright. She looks stunned as Santana steps into the room toward her. The sunlight now fully revealing the woman hidden in the shadow of her doorway.

 _Brittany did not write of her well enough_ , Emily thinks.

"Oh my..." Emily breathes out, coughing some and giving Santana a small smile in apology.

Santana draws up the mask over her lower face, having meant to sooner and feeling a twinge irresponsible for doing so now. _She must think me the worst sort of doctor_.

"How are—" Santana begins to ask her customary question of wellbeing only for Emily to speak over her.

"She said you were pretty," Emily tells her, still staring in wonder. "But you're really, _really_ pretty."

Santana feels her cheeks warm beneath the mask. She chuckles. "Um, thanks?"

"The boys in town won't know what to do with themselves when they see you."

"I don't really—"

"You're honestly the prettiest woman I've ever seen," Emily continues on, voice growing weaker as Santana sets the tray down on her bedside table. "And you're smart, and you've been helping Britt, _and_ you've brought me breakfast… you're perfect."

Santana laughs as she carefully sits herself down in the very spot Brittany sat by Emily's side just the night before. "And you are exactly how Brittany described."

Emily quirks a brow with a smirk, "Embarrassing and too talkative?"

Santana rolls her eyes as she hands the girl her bowl of oatmeal. "Adorable and charming." She smiles warmly at her. "It's great to finally meet you Emily."

Emily gives her a smile in return as she takes a slow bite of the oatmeal. She chews just as carefully, unnecessarily, Santana notes. A somber expression crosses the youthful face as she points up with the spoon to Santana's mouth. "I wish it could have been without one of those, but then I suppose that means you'd be talking to a corpse."

Santana feels a clench in her heart at the words. "I'm going to help you, in whatever way I can," she promises, gaze earnest.

Emily waves the words off with her spoon as she settles back against the pillow propped against her bed railing. She seems defeated, quieted. "It's okay, Santana," she tells her softly, stirring her oatmeal without thought to taking another bite. It rests forgotten and steaming in her lap. "I know I won't see spring. I heard Dr. Nelson tell Pa he doesn't expect me to even see February. He said it nicer of course…"

"You're doing so well right now."

"It's Sunday, is it not?" Emily asks, looking back up to Santana for confirmation. Santana nods. "Last I was awake enough to speak it was a Tuesday."

Santana's eyes widen, not having expected it to have been so long. "Your body is fighting this. Pneumonia is a tricky illness, compounded with the tuberculosis—"

"Do you think I'll make it till Spring?" Emily asks, unwilling to hear the same words spoken to her by everyone who's been brave enough to visit. Certainly none of her friends… they couldn't dare the risk of seeing her knowing what affliction she could spread. Aside from Dr. Nelson and her father only Mrs. Schuester ever paid her visits. And even when the skittish woman did she skirted near the edge of the bed, two masks over her face in place of just one and with hands always covered in the thickest of gloves. At least she brought books to make up for it. Emily stares up at Santana, a hard glint in her tired eyes. "Honestly, as a doctor, do you?"

Santana is astonished. To sit before someone with such a grasp of mortality at her age…she doesn't know how to respond. And what more, she can feel tears brimming in her eyes. Knowing it best not to lie, not to someone so incredibly courageous, Santana bows her head and gives a shake of her head.

Emily sighs, grateful as she slumps into her seat. "Why is it so hard for everyone else to accept that?"

"They love you Emily," Santana tells her, truthful. "No one wishes to lose you."

"But you will," Emily tells her, fully having accepted this all long ago. She smiles calmly at Santana. "And it's okay."

"If Brittany could hear you now," Santana says, words choked.

Emily thinks on it a moment, her lips thinned as she places her uneaten breakfast back to the tray. "She'll not want to hear any of this," she decides upon finally, and knows she's spoken right when Santana shakes her head in agreement. She slips further down against the bed, breath growing deeper, more broken. "I'm so glad she's home… both of you."

Santana wipes at her eyes as she reaches forward and clasps her hand atop one of Emily's own. The younger girls skin is hot to the touch, pulse weak where Santana can feel it just at the edge of her wrist. "She's missed you so much."

Emily smiles again, this time with far more effort as her body succumbs to fatigue. "I didn't think I'd ever see her again…"

Santana helps her to settle down, carefully cradling Emily's head so as to avoid it knocking upon the bars of the bed frame railing. "Just rest, Emily," she whispers, brushing some damp hair from back over the girl's forehead. "She's here now."

"Thank… you…" Emily breathes out, sleep quickly taking her back into its calm waters.

Santana watches her sleep for only a few minutes more, wishing there was more she could do to help rid the disease from Emily's blood. Her mask is wet with her tears, sniffles prevalent in every other breath she takes. She leaves before she can start crying.

The only other bedroom door in the hall is ajar as Santana approaches. From the kitchen she can hear the sound of the men, each of their distinct voices carrying clearly in the small home. Brittany's is not among them.

She's busy slipping a dress down over her body inside the bedroom. Santana opens the door a little wider once she's decent, leaning against the frame as she watches Brittany brush down the wrinkles and folds of her skirt. It's strange and alluring, seeing Brittany donning something so entirely feminine.

Santana clears her throat softly, announcing her presence. Brittany seems unfazed as she turns toward her, finishing clasping the few buttons at her chest. She offers Santana a smile and a twirl of her skirt.

"You look beautiful Brittany," Santana tells her.

"It's one of my best dresses," Brittany says, blushing with pride. "For when I see Emily today."

Santana moves into the room, closing the door behind her. "I just met her."

Brittany looks surprised, and also, understandably, upset. "Without me?"

"I didn't want to wake you," Santana says with utmost apology as she moves to Brittany's side. She hopes her next words will bring a much needed smile to the face before her. "She's…. she's everything you've ever said of her, Brittany."

It does, just ever so slightly at first but Brittany's eyes speak volumes more. "I bet she loved seeing you. I told you she would," she teases, grinning as she steps away from Santana to try and smother her hair into some semblance of style in the hand mirror she's propped against the dresser and wall. She bites her lip, frustrated as she tries to force it toward the side. In the mirror she can see Santana watching her, not really amused, just simply… besotted. Brittany grins at her reflection. "You keep staring."

"I just… I've never seen you look so," Santana is flustered, trying to force an apt word free from her mind. Pathetically, she settles upon, "Feminine."

Brittany giggles as she moves away from the mirror, surrendering to whatever way her hair has decided today to settle. "You've not ever seen me in one, have you?" she asks, amused as she spins in a way she knows her skirt will kiss at her calves. "Is it odd? Do you prefer the slacks?"

"No, no," Santana assures her, stopping Brittany before she can twirl around her once more. Her hands come to rest down on Brittany's hips, keeping her in place as she smiles up at her. "I like it. A lot."

Brittany leans forward, wrapping Santana in her arms. "Hmm, I know," she whispers, feeling far more at home than she has since returning. She hugs Santana tight. "Thank you, for not letting go last night."

"Of course," Santana whispers in kind, pressing a light kiss to Brittany's cheek. "Always."

Brittany pulls Santana higher into her arms, lifting her entirely from the floor. " _I love you_ ," she tells her, kissing her soundly. For just this moment Brittany forgets where she stands, all her thoughts upon the woman in her arms and the warmth that caresses her heart as she sets her down to her feet so their kiss can deepen. The pain is still there from yesterday, just as fresh and cavernous as before. But she doesn't feel as if she's lost to it when Santana holds her face so and kisses her the way she's wanted her to for days now.

It's bearable, even when she knows it's soon to consume her once this is over.

And Santana can feel Brittany's need; especially in the way her fingers tremble where they brush against her arm. For just a moment neither need feel the burden of the death soon to strike them all. They are home, the one place they've been striving to be for so long. They have one another.

They part after a few more shared pecks and a lingering nibble of a bottom lip.

Santana can see that edge of darkness back in Brittany's eyes, but she sees love too, she sees her trying to hold together.

"Have you had breakfast yet?" Brittany asks as she leads them toward the door and holds it open for Santana to pass through.

With a smile in thanks Santana answers, "No, your father made some oatmeal though."

Brittany grins, taking her hand, needing the support. "No more cornmeal for us."

Santana laughs, holding tight. " _Thank god_."

* * *

Hendrick rose this morning before the sun as he's done most all his life. His eldest daughter may be home from war and his youngest stricken with a curse of a disease, but the animals upon his farm still needed tending. There were still chores to be done regardless of circumstance. A livelihood that needed to be maintained. Wood had to be collected for the fire he'd need for warming the home, another letter delivered to Dr. Nelson in hopes the good man would be kind enough to bring Emily more medicine.

There was some time though, right after he dressed and shaved the beard he'd been neglecting since October to simply watch both his daughters sleep. He likes sitting with Emily in the dawn hours, when the light isn't so strong and he can't see the way she's fading before his eyes. He doesn't stay for long though, he never can stomach the sounds of her labored breathing without wishing there was more comfort he could bring her. He hasn't been able to afford her medication in weeks, relying on Dr. Nelson's kindness alone to provide the care Emily so desperately needs.

And then there was Brittany, curled tightly against Santana and looking as though her dreams were as bereft with peace as he felt himself. She'd whimper and burrow deeper against Santana's chest, seeking a comfort he's not ever seen her grasp for with anyone else. Not even during all the nights she'd come running to him when Emily was not yet born and the storms were loud and her heart beat frantically in her young ribs. And somehow, even deep asleep, Santana could sense the need of his daughter, and pulled her closer, chasing away the hurt.

He can't imagine what they must have done to survive the war, even as short as their time was entrenched in the thick of conflict. It has felt years to him since she left. He cannot describe the feeling within him now to know she is home, safe and well. Keeping to himself, he tucked the blankets around them both before he set out a few of Brittany's clothes for Santana to decide upon wearing.

As he struck up the fire in the front room hearth he also made sure to burn the formal letter he'd received from her commanding Officer just a few weeks prior. His daughter was not captive anymore.

He sits now, watching as Brittany and Santana enter the kitchen and take their seats opposite him at the table. Brittany makes sure to lean over and give him a kiss on his cheek before pulling her bowl of oatmeal in front of her.

"Much better," she tells him, scratching at her own chin when he raises a brow in question. "I hate when you let it grow. It's always like kissing a porcupine."

"You used to never be bothered by it when you were little," Hendrick says, happy to have his daughter back this morning, Brittany's spirits clearly far more raised. "You always claimed it tickled."

Brittany scrunches her nose, trying to recall ever saying so. "I did?"

Hendrick laughs. "Yes, sunshine, all the time."

Santana is surprised how easily Brittany and her father converse. There's a proud smile on his face all the while, sometimes his attention straying to her and causing Santana to feel a rush of heat in her cheeks. His questions are spoken kindly, much the same way as Burt asked queries of her when they first met. She can see why Brittany was so fond of that man, he and Hendrick are very much cut from the same cloth.

Before long they finish their meal and bid farewell to the boys. Sam is the first to give them hugs and whispers of the prayers he'll recite every night for them all. Noah gives them each a long hug, promising to write them upon his return home.

"If you need us we'll come straight away you hear?" He tells Brittany, feeling his throat tighten as he speaks. "I love you girls."

They stand watching them head back down the path until there's nothing left save for a line of sled tracks in the melting snow.

Hendrick is the first to head back in the home, intent upon picking up the dishes and washing them in some snow out by the water pump. It would be another few weeks still until the frozen water in the well had thawed enough for the pump to be in working order once more. Santana tries to lend a hand but he can't quite make himself say yes to the offer. She still feels a guest to him, too new to be asking of a hand in chores.

They were prisoners not a fortnight ago.

"You've been through quite enough I reckon," he tells her with a chuckle, hoping it hides how shaken his voice has grown. "It's high time you had a chance to just _be_ at home."

Santana feels it again, that warmth in her chest as she nods and sits back down at the table. Once Hendrick has gone, Brittany leans across the tabletop, sliding her fingers into the spaces between Santana's own.

"I told you he'd love you too."

Santana lets out a breath, pressing her fingertips against Brittany's. "He's just happy you've made it home."

"That _both_ of us have made it home," Brittany corrects her softly, scooting her chair nearer. "I think I want to tell him."

Santana's eyes widen, heart racing. "Brittany, are you sure? It's not even been a _day_. You promised to give him time and—"

"And what better time than now with him so cheerful?" Brittany asks, smiling at Santana gently. "I _know_ he cares for you."

Santana cannot deny her claim. Hendrick has been nothing but kind to her since they arrived. She still feels it too soon though, but can't will herself to say so aloud. Not when Brittany is finally, _finally_ looking more herself. "Do you want me with you, when you tell him?"

Brittany squeezes her hand. "No, it's okay," she tells her. "I know you wanted to catch Dr. Nelson before he heads out on his visits for the day."

"This is important though. I'll stay if you want me to."

Brittany's smile softens. "I love you, you know that?" she whispers, picking Santana's hand up from the table to brush a light kiss against her knuckles. "Take Apple, Dr. Nelson's shop is just a ways—"

The ringing of a sleigh bell halts anymore of her words. _Emily_.

"Brittany?" Santana whispers, rubbing her thumbs gently against the back of Brittany's hand.

"I'll…I'll be all right with Pa," Brittany says after a moment. Her eyes brightens. _Emily is awake_. She meets Santana's hesitant gaze. "Go San, I'll be okay, I promise."

The bell is rung again, louder this time.

Santana leans over quickly, giving her a sound kiss. With one more look spared back toward her in hesitation, Santana finally heads to the barn at Brittany's assurance.

Smothering down her skirt Brittany stands, heart beating fast as she looks down the hall toward Emily's room. She's no reason to be nervous, she knows, but feels so anyway as she makes her way down the hall. Her hands shake at her sides and she must roll them into the skirt of her dress to keep them from trembling so. Her eyes are immediately drawn to the chair set up outside Emily's door.

To the mask she must wear before entering.

The sleigh bell sounds softer this time once she's standing right in front of the door.

"This stupid thing never works," she can hear Emily muttering from inside followed by the sharp ring and clang as the little bell is slammed down to the bedside table.

With shaking hands still, Brittany ties a mask around her lower face. Breathing deep she swallows hard and opens the door.

Her sister is sat up in bed, looking just as pale and just as ill as the night before. Frailer now without the quilts bundled around her frame to hide the way her skin hangs from her weakened muscles and bones. All that remains alive are her blue eyes, duller in color than Brittany remembers them but oh how they pierce just as strongly into her own. How full of love they still are. And how much the gaze speaks of the relief her sister feels seeing her now.

Emily lets out a gasp as her eyes stray to the top of Brittany's head. "Britt… your _hair_."

Brittany touches a few fingers to her hair as she makes her way to the space Emily pats at her side. "I told Santana you'd hate it."

"It looks all right I suppose," Emily offers with a strained smile as Brittany sits herself down. She hates how awkwardly Brittany settles near her, as if unsure whether to face her or remain staring at the far wall. Brittany is never this way with her.

"It'll grow back, don't worry," Brittany says quietly.

Emily reaches forward and presses a few of her fingertips to Brittany's elbow. When Brittany flinches at her touch and then looks to her with apology immediately after she merely smiles at her sadly, understanding. "I'm sorry I was so tired yesterday."

Brittany turns to her then, tucking one of her legs beneath her as she scoots closer. "No, don't apologize," she whispers, shaking her head as she tries to keep herself from crying. "I-I'm just so happy to _see_ you again."

Emily smiles at her, giving Brittany's arm a gentle shake. "You can hug me you know. I won't break."

Again Brittany shakes her head, eyes once more taking in the fragile form of her sister. "You're so skinny Em…"

Emily lets out an exasperated sigh. "Santana said the same too," she says and upon the widening of Brittany's eyes, elaborates, "Well, not _aloud_ but her eyes did. She came to bring me some food this morning. We talked for a little," she tells her, smiling more as she adds, "I really like her, Brittany."

The smile Brittany gives her this time is one Emily was afraid she'd never see in her sister's eyes again. Nor does she expect the hug she's quickly wrapped in. "I knew you would," Brittany whispers as she gives Emily a soft squeeze. "She's going to help you get better."

Emily snorts, barely able to contain the roll of her eyes. "Don't pretend," she scoffs as Brittany lets her go and the smile once upon her sisters face fades instantly. " _No one_ can make this go away. Not even God."

"You _have_ to get well, Emily. I'm home now and I can take care of you with San. We'll make sure—"

Emily reaches forward, eyes softening as she rests one of her hands against Brittany's. "It's okay."

"It's not… it's _not_ okay for you to..." Brittany can't will herself to complete the thought. Her throat feels as though it's grown thorns and the sting of fresh tears burn in the corners of her eyes once more.

And the look Emily is giving her… the one with such obvious apology.

"I've thought of it a lot, and it's not so scary anymore," Emily tells her softly. "Sometimes I wake up and it's so hard to even take a breath. If I were to just stop—"

" _Don't_ ," Brittany chokes out. "Don't say things like that, _please_."

"Pa can't look at me anymore, you know," Emily continues on, her movements slowing. "He comes in here and sits right there like you and then tells me he loves me. The tears are the worst. It's as if I'm already gone to him."

"He's just scared," Brittany tells her, so sure of her words. He must be. It is the only reason why he'd cry so. He's afraid of losing her. Everyone is. Brittany feels just like him now, crying herself before she can even will the tears to abscond. "You're not gone, Em. _You're right here_ ," she whispers, voice thick as she moves forward and falls into Emily's arms. "I've m-missed you so much."

Emily takes in a deep breath, her chest rattling with the effort. "Me too."

"I'll take care of you," Brittany declares, nodding as she pulls away and holds tight to her sister's arms. "I will, _I s-swear it."_

"Only for a while more," Emily says, tired.

" _Always_ ," Brittany affirms, voice shaken but strong. "And Santana's a good doctor, she'll find a way, _I know it_."

Emily takes another slow breath as Brittany eases her down to the bed. "I really like her…"

"I know, peanut," Brittany whispers, pained to hear her sister saying it once more. _Emily never forgets._ "You said that already."

She yawns, eyes growing unfocused. "Did I?"

"You should get your rest," Brittany tells her as she pulls the blankets up across Emily. "San says you need lots of sleep."

"I know… it's going to be all right," Emily's voice has gone so quiet Brittany can barely hear her even a foot apart. "She'll look after you…"

Her heart warms at the whisper words. "I love her," she tells Emily and with lips trembling into a smile adds ever more softly, "She's mijn zielsverwant."

"Hmm," Emily hums, giving Brittany's hand a weak squeeze.

"And your bell works," Brittany tells her, tucking the blankets in snugly about her sister. "I heard it. What did you need?"

"Just...you…" Emily breathes out before sleep overtakes her once more.

Brittany remains sitting at her side, sniffling as she repeats, " _I'm here_."

* * *

Her father is sitting in his favorite chair beside the fireplace when she walks into the front room sometime later. The first thing Brittany notices is how worn the armrests of the wooden parlor chair have grown. Particularly the faded and scratched fabric right where one of his hands is resting. He's been worrying the material down, Brittany realizes, seeing him picking at the loose strings now. Fretting over them just as he did for her… and for Emily.

With his other hand he prods down at the fire with their sole iron stoker, eliciting a wave of heat to rush up from the newly sprouted flames. Brittany can feel it rustling some of the hair resting across her forehead as she steps closer.

"Pa?" she calls for him quietly but he's startled all the same, dropping the iron bar to the floor with a clang and causing a few sparks to flitter upward in the fire. They settle with pops and crackles, the ringing of the bar still echoing as Brittany reaches down to set it back into its stand. Hendrick seems ashamed to have her picking up after his folly but appreciates the help nonetheless. To even have her home now to do so is joy enough for him.

Brittany wonders what he was thinking so heavily upon that he hadn't even noticed her enter. He could always sense her approaching. "Cake for your thoughts?" she asks, smiling down at him.

That brings a small quiver of a smile to the corner of his mouth. "Did you get to sit with Emily?"

Brittany nods, although her grin is replaced instead by a tightening of her mouth. "She sleeps a lot."

"It's good for her," Hendrick says in response, equally somber. Brittany shifts in her position against the wall, her eyes back upon the worn corner of the armrest. She doesn't want to give him more reason for worrisome thoughts. She's starting to think perhaps Santana was right, after all. It's too soon yet.

Brushing some hair back over her forehead she asks of him, "Did you need any help in the fields today?"

He shakes his head, feeling the small object he stuffed into his pocket earlier this morning seeming to burn through to his skin as hot as the fire before him. "All taken care of, don't you fret none."

"And the hens?" Brittany asks next. "Have they been fed yet?"

Hendrick looks up at her, squinting in marvel at his daughter. Brittany never remembered chores of her own volition. The object ceases to burn so against his thigh. His grin returns. "All taken care of, sunshine."

"Oh," Brittany breathes out, looking a might disappointed by his words.

"I do have something for you though," he tells her as he stands to his feet and withdraws from his pocket the small locket she'd left that morning of her enlistment.

Brittany reaches out, touching with tentative fingers the newly polished surface. The once tarnished gold locket is clean and shined to its former glory. Brittany can't help but think it looks just as it did when it hung down from her mother's neck. Hendrick holds the chain up by the clasps, nodding at her to turn so he may secure it around her neck back where it rightfully belongs. She does so, momentarily forgetting how short her hair is when her fingers meet nothing but the skin at the back of her neck. Her father chuckles some as he fastens it into place.

Brittany feels the locket settle warmly right over her heart. She's missed the weight of it against her skin. The memories it kindles.

Hendrick places a quick kiss to the top of her head and whispers, "You should look inside."

Brittany turns to him, eyes questioning as she picks the locket from over her chest and opens it carefully. Inside are two small photographs. One image of him, stoic, tired and proud. The other of Emily, her eyes bright, mouth a bit blurred from where Brittany knows she had to resist the urge to smile during her sitting. She looks so healthy… so _happy_. More than just Emily's mouth seems to appear blurred the longer Brittany stares. It's not until she feels the sensation of water upon her cheek that she realizes she's begun to silently cry.

Again.

She feels she's cried enough in the past two days to last her a lifetime.

"I had them done when she was feeling well a few weeks after you'd gone," Hendrick explains, reaching up with his thumb to brush a few of his daughter's tears away. His skin is calloused and hard, just as Brittany always recalls. The telltale hands of a farmer. But he's ever so gentle, as he is, always. "I did promise to someday get them for you."

Her arms are around him before he can even process that she's moved. Stronger than he remembers her ever being too, he thinks with a chuckle as she holds him tight. Hendrick manages to pry his arms out from her hold to hug her back. "All will be well now, Britt. You're home with us."

"And San too," Brittany adds as she pulls away and wipes the remaining tears from her eyes. "I hope Dr. Nelson takes to her."

"She's wonderful, Britt," Hendrick tells her, assured. "He will certainly wish to hire her."

"I hope so," Brittany says, tucking her locket safely beneath her shirt so it may rest once more against the skin above her heart. "All she's ever wanted is to be a true doctor."

"Don't you worry none, he's been looking for someone and she's as perfect a match as he'll get," Hendrick tells her, throwing an arm around her shoulder as he leads them back toward the kitchen. It'll be suppertime before they know it; there is more wood to be collected, and potatoes in need of peeling. "And who's to know, maybe a nice feller will catch her eye while she's in town?"

Brittany's stomach plummets.

Hendrick gives a laugh at the bewildered expression that's just crossed his daughter face. "Oh don't look so surprised about it now," he says as he hands her the knife used for the task. "A girl like her? She'll have them lining up our porch for even a smile. Wonder who'll be the lucky fellow."

Brittany stammers, still dumfounded. "She…she's…"

"Has she someone still in the war?" Hendrick asks, hesitant for he's not want to bring any traumatic thoughts forward.

Brittany quickly shakes her head in answer. "No, she… Santana loves _me_."

He smiles at her then, surprising even her with the look of understanding now upon his face. "Of course she does," he says, giving her shoulder a quick squeeze. "We all do Brittany. She's as good a friend as any I could have ever hoped for you to find. Her marrying won't change that."

He slides out the bucket of potatoes and leaves it just beside her rooted feet. Brittany can't speak. With a wink he heads back out to gather more wood for the coming night.

And Brittany remains standing in the kitchen beside the sparse stock of potatoes, knife held loosely in her now quivering hand, lost, not knowing how to tell him the way she _really_ feels for Santana.

Not when it seems he won't listen.

* * *

Santana's never _really_ ridden a horse all on her own before. The few pony skips and half dozen shared horse rides she's taken in her youth were hardly of merit. On all occasions there was someone there to lead the animal. Always there was someone else to kick at its hind and tug sharply on the reins. All she'd to do was simply hang on. Riding eluded her. Brittany had made it seem so effortless a skill whenever Santana would watch her from afar, those days when she was still weary of her growing feelings for the woman. Though near everything Brittany did seemed effortless, everything aside from perhaps knitting, Santana recalls now with a fond sadness.

She hopes Brittany will knit her another scarf to replace the ones lost to the ambush.

Berry's just would not do.

She tugs on the fabric now, nearly losing her balance atop Apple. Hendrick had gone over the basics with her as he helped her into the saddle this morning, only one of which she can recall now.

Not ever, upon any instance, was she to _ever_ let go of the reins.

" _You'll end up ankle's to the sky and your head to the ground if he were to really get movin'."_

To her credit though she _was_ holding the reins when she slipped off a mile or so out on the road into town. Blessedly, no one had seen. And thankfully Apple had merely stopped and waited for her to climb back atop the saddle before starting on down the snow sodden path again. She'd not ever mention to anyone it took her near two quarters of an hour to do so. Her skirt though, Brittany's dress, was entirely in need of a good washing. She picks at some of the mud now as Apple walks them up the slope back to the Pierce farm. No fall could ever mar the feeling of satisfaction she's gained after her meeting with Dr. Nelson.

And to have such a feeling as she returns _home_ … Santana can think of no better end to her day.

Except for maybe the sight that meets her up ahead, where Brittany sits on the porch steps awaiting her arrival.

Apple moves straight to her without so much as a cue from Santana's hold on his reins. She's grateful for the horse's good temperament, knowing she'd very much still be sitting upon that road had she any other mount. Once near enough Brittany gives his nose a scratch as she takes the reins down from Santana's hold.

"Was he a good boy for you?" Brittany asks, looking up toward Santana as she continues to stoke the horse's neck. "'Cause you look a little… grubby."

Santana chuckles, rolling her eyes. "Ever so complimentary, Britt."

Brittany smiles again, slyly this time as she gives another tug on Apple's reins and moves up a few steps on the porch. Santana holds tight to the saddle as Apple moves into place just alongside the porch steps. Eyes still wide and fearing another fall, Santana is surprised when instead two hands meet her thighs and warm lips smoothly capture her own.

Brittany is kissing her, quite thoroughly, without care, in the _very_ wide-open space of her front lawn.

Before Santana can even begin to properly return the kiss Brittany pulls away, smirking ever so enticingly.

Santana blushes, her fingernails digging deeper into the saddle seat.

"You can't get yourself down, can you?" Brittany asks her after a long moment.

Santana blushes harder. "Help me, will you? I've never had to do this on my own."

"I'll teach you," Brittany says, accompanied by a great deal of smothered giggles. As she adjusts Santana's feet properly in the stirrups she looks back up toward the woman, genuinely curious and asks, "How did it go with Dr. Nelson?"

"I begin tomorrow," Santana tells her and then to her utter surprise is pulled down from the saddle without warning and into a crushing hug. "Brittany! It's not _that_ wonderful."

"But you'll be helping him right? As a _true_ doctor?" Brittany is practically bouncing with elation for her. Santana laughs as Brittany finally releases her and she's the ability once more to give her a small, beholden nod. She still can't quite believe the news herself. Dr. Nelson had been so gracious with her request.

"Just as an dispensary aid for now," Santana explains as Brittany takes Apple's reins and begins leading him toward the barn. Santana follows by her side. "But he's agreed to take me on. He's not much to pay me, none at all really."

"Well, that's okay, I mean you'll be helping a lot of good folks so—"

Santana lets out an aggrieved sigh. "But that's just _it_ , Brittany," she says, voice tempered. "He's been tending to everyone without taking a cent to his pocket. He's not been able to afford a shipment of medicine _all_ _month_. No one's been able to pay him."

Brittany understands though. She's seen the empty pill bottles outside Emily's room. The barren shelves in their pantry…"Pa says the winter's been real hard on everyone. And with the war and all..."

Santana regrets ever letting her voice grow so critical. She reaches down, taking Brittany's free hand gently in her own. "I'll find a way to get Emily's medicine, Brittany. I promise you."

Brittany gives her hand a squeeze for she's thought of one way. "Rachel's family has money, we could—"

" _No_. I will _not_ grovel to _Berry_ for—" Santana cuts herself off before she can say anything to further spur the vexed expression that's just crossed Brittany's face. "We're already in her debt Brittany, _please_. I promised I'd find a way. Don't write to her."

"Then who else Santana?" Brittany asks of her sharply as she beings undoing Apple's saddle with practiced ease. She pops back up after undoing his girth buckle, eyes narrowing down into Santana's from over his back. " _Who_?"

Santana has thought of her answer as well. She had the entire journey home from town to work out a solution. Her fists clench now with the same anger that surged in her before as the name crossed her mind. Anger with herself for ever allowing such a possibility…. one that seems their only choice. She licks her lips, hesitant as she answers, "My… my mother."

Brittany's bitterness fades almost immediately. She gives a single pat to Apple's side and the horse moves into his stall, opening the space between the women. Brittany steps closer toward Santana. "San," she whispers, reaching out for Santana's hand once more.

"If she refuses I will personally write Rachel myself, okay?" Santana tells her, voice choked with a discordance of emotions Brittany is taken aback by. She can't place them all, only hearing faint hints of the fear and resentment laced in her trembling tone. Her fingers trace against Santana's fist, urging the hand to relax, for Santana's eyes to open and lock with her own. But Santana's head is still turned down, her hand only starting to unclench. "She probably thinks me dead but perhaps a letter will open her heart for the _minute_ it will take her to mail us the medicine Emily needs from my father's stores. After all these years she owes me at least that. You _know_ she does."

Brittany pulls Santana nearer until dark hair is tucked beneath her chin and her arms encircle the shorter woman's body. "You're so proud, Santana," Brittany whispers, smiling slightly when she feels Santana's hands wrap behind her back. "You don't have to be that girl anymore."

Santana lets out a huff of sound against Brittany's shoulder before she pulls away, shaking her head and waving the conversation away. "It's done, let's not talk of it anymore," she says with a smile, finally meeting Brittany's eyes. "I want to hear about what you said to your father. Judging by the _greeting_ I received I gather you told him then?"

This time it is Brittany who looks away. "No, I tried but he… I don't know," she sighs, dismayed as she turns back up toward Santana. "It's as if he wasn't listening."

Santana wonders just exactly what it was Brittany said to him, but seeing her looking so despondent now she offers instead, "I'm sorry, Britt."

Brittany shrugs, remaining hopeful. "Maybe tomorrow he'll listen."

Santana smiles, moving forward to link their arms so they can return inside. "You know what we should do tonight?"

"Have sex in the loft?" Brittany suggests.

Santana's steps falter, her grip on Brittany's arm tightening for just a second. "Wha— no… no, but also yes. Yes, we should do that," she affirms, nodding because that is an entirely wonderful idea. She grins up at Brittany and tugs them onward back toward the home. " _Before_ though, I was thinking, I pocketed these nice stamps here from the pharmacy and we haven't gotten a chance to write those letters you wanted."

"Santana! You can't _steal_ things from Dr. Nelson," Brittany swats down at Santana's hand, forcing the stamps back into Santana's coat pocket. "You haven't even started _working_ yet."

"I fully intend to replace these stamps," Santana tells her truthfully. They are a _momentary_ loan of sorts. "I just figured they were looking a bit neglected and could use a good trip."

"Stamps don't come back Santana, that's not how the post works," Brittany tells her patiently. "Didn't anyone ever teach you that?"

Santana deadpans. "I didn't mean it quite so literally."

"How am I supposed to know?" Brittany asks, amused now. "Until ten minutes ago you didn't even know how to _dismount a horse_."

"I _still_ don't know how to dismount a horse, you mean," Santana quips. " _Someone_ got a bit excited and yanked me off before she could teach me."

Brittany bends down, stealing a quick kiss against Santana's ear. "Later? After we go to the loft?"

Santana shivers, nodding. "Letters first?"

Brittany is more than happy to agree to the suggestion.

They find Hendrick inside, napping soundly in his chair beside the fire.

So they try to keep their voices low as they sit down at the kitchen table, paper and stamps spread about them, sharing smiles from across the mess as they write to their friends. Words of good tiding and missed company to Noah, Sam and Quinn. Words of comfort and safety to Burt and Michael. And upon Brittany's request one each for Kurt and Tina in hopes they can bring good word if their friends at war cannot.

The last is written to Santana's mother. Short and uninvolved, Santana thinks, the very summation of their relationship or what little of it even still remains.

They'll mail them come morning.

For just a little while that night, as they lay entangled on a blanket in the barn loft, everything feels as though it will be all right.

* * *

_**January 12th** **, 1863** _

Dear Santana,

It's astounding how palpable your annoyance and abhorrence is for Rachel even in writing. If I didn't know you better, merely gauging on the amount of paper you wasted speaking of her faults, I'd think you (dare I say) _fascinated_ with her. But rest assured your _dirty_ secret is safe with me. And speaking of secret, how are you two? I'm sure Brittany is thrilled to be home and with her family once more. Is Emily still well? How are you coping with the Pierce's? You never spoke much of your family to me but from what I've heard from Noah you are in a much better place now. Happiness is something seldom achieved in this world and I envy that you've found it.

Also many thanks for the list of medical journals I should try to get my hands upon. Sam took me to town just today for a bit of browsing and I'm afraid instead of journals I've come home with a pamphlet filled with the most radical of social ideals. _The Declaration of Sentiments_ , written a few years back I believe by some women in New York. Have you heard of it? A woman handed it to me as we passed on a corner and thinking no more of it I left it to my bag until Sam returned me home. Rachel and I usually do some reading with her fathers before supper. She sat reading her romance (hidden in a song book, as if I haven't figured her out by now) and I sat there absorbed in the world of woman's rights and reform. We looked quite the sight I assume. You really should find a copy of this pamphlet and let me know your thoughts. I've never read such boldness! It's truly inspiring!

As for your queries about Noah and I all is well between us. He took me to see a theater show recently and it was delightful. And before you ask, yes, Rachel was one of the performers. She's not quite bad, you know, her acting is in desperate need of help but her singing is splendid. We all judged her far too harshly upon that first meeting. She's still entirely exasperating; do not take me wrong, but marginally less so as the days go by. Perhaps I've just gotten used to the Berrys in general? When you meet her fathers you'll quickly see why she's the way she is. Also you cannot judge me, for I've seen the letter Brittany has sent her. Clearly the two of us have matured enough to carry on civilized rapport with her. At the very least you should send to her an apology.

Anyway, Noah has been very good to me and I do like him a great deal but am afraid I cannot enter into courtship just yet. That would be presumptuous wouldn't it? I've barely known him but a few weeks! And so _persistent_ he is! Did you know I caught him stealing around my window just the other night? The nerve of that boy! Be lucky you have Brittany for I don't know what I will say to him next. It must be so nice to know you never need feel embarrassed to be caught in your nightdress by her. And there is no need to elaborate further upon what occurs whenever you do, I swear your last letter left me red-faced for _days_. Don't you dare write such filth to me again, Santana. Even if you claim I need to vicariously live through your experiences to gain some form of perverse education. What ever would I need to know any of that for? I'm non-courting Noah!

That said I miss you both dearly and do hope to visit soon. Please give my regards to Brittany!

With love,  
Quinn Fabray

* * *

_**January 16th** _ _**, 1863** _

Dearest Lady Quinn of Berrydom

It's _astounding_ how sickening your sarcasm strikes me. Almost as revolting as your praise and _love_ for Berry. Just admit it Quinn, you are still in that house because you wish nothing more than to replace the _enormous_ hole Finn left in her heart. And by enormous I mean Giant Oaf sized of course. I'd wish you luck on this endeavor but that would presume I care, which I don't. When are you moving to Lima? We need to detach you from that midget succubus before she drains you of all your wits. You've been there not a few weeks and already have forsaken the medical sciences for politics! Women's _suffrage_ no less. Welcome to the North, Quinn, where you will forever be sorely disappointed and frustrated whenever anyone so much as mentions the word vote.

I am happy though, to hear your _courtship_ with Noah is going well, even if you won't admit that is what you are doing. He's been a very good friend to Brittany and I and we'd like to see him happy. You drive him absolutely mad, you know that? In the best way of course though. You should see the letter he wrote to Brittany, your name must be scrawled at least a dozen times per _paragraph_. She thinks you've broken him, by the way, since he can't go more than three sentences without mentioning you. My favorite gem from his letter is: "Sam and I spent a good part of the morn fishing down by the river. Sometimes I stare in the water and I think how much it reminds me of Quinn's eyes." Mud reminds him of you, in case you didn't gather that what with your upbringing inside a palace and all. We've mud here too, I don't think I've ever had to walk through so much in my life! I would tell you what Brittany and I did just the other day out back by the barn when I got some smeared on my skirt front but I don't want to pollute your mind with anymore of my so called _perverse experiences_. Red-faced for _days_? Are you _serious_ Quinn? I barely said anything of the sort. You're such a prude.

I do miss you though Quinn and am very much looking forward to your future visit to the Pierce farm! Did I tell you how Brittany has put me in charge of collecting the hen eggs? I thought it a simple enough task. How often could one chicken cycle through breeding? Good god, there are a dozen hens and those ladies drop new ones damn near _everyday_! It's medically maddening! I am up to my waist in eggs! Had I known I'd never have agreed. And they bite Quinn. They bite _so_ _very hard_. Dr. Nelson's patients must think me incompetent with all the bandages I have wrapped about my fingers. I'm using gloves now and Brittany laughs at me but at least I've no new marks on my fingers. My ankles on the other hand, I fear may never be the same.

Hi Quinn, this is Brittany though you can probably tell since my writing is so poor compared to Santana's and I've said it's me. I just thought I'd clarify incase you may have lost your sight and Rachel is reading this to you and she can't tell our writing apart because she's probably acting it out for you even if you are blind and not paying attention to things like that anyway. I hope all is well with you at the Berry house! I know Santana misses you and even though we haven't gotten to know each other as well I guess I miss you too? We hope you can visit us soon and bring Noah and Sam with you. Not Rachel. Santana says she's never allowed to come and if she does she'll have to sleep in the barn. But this is my home so she can sleep on the floor in the kitchen I suppose. Lord Tubbington likes it swell enough. Emily is doing okay this week. I hope next week is better for her. We've told her about you and she wants you to come visit too. So now you must.

Love from us both, (though none for Berry!)

Santana and Britt Pierce

P.S. – Some for Rachel, don't pay any attention to Santana. Also don't tell her I said so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dutch Translation  
> mijn zielsverwant: my soulmate


	24. This Home is not Broken

**January 17** **th** **, 1863**

Brittany shan't ever tire of waking beside Santana. _It is impossible_ , she believes, just as inconceivable a notion as the stars suddenly falling from the heavens or her Pa finally agreeing to be rid of the outhouse in favor of a water closet like the Berry's; a refusal that was much to Santana's chagrin. Brittany can live without the convenience. She has, after all, done so her whole life. What she cannot abide is to be without Santana.

She could never wish to rise to another's face, or even fathom warmth filling her quite like the way being so near to Santana does.

She'll never love another in the all-consuming manner she loves Santana.

Lying next to her now, watching as her chest rises and falls with the slow even breaths of peaceful slumber, it's unthinkable.

It also frightens Brittany sometimes, that she feels so devoted to another. She images this is what must spur the pens of poets and songwriters alike; a need to capture the simultaneous stirrings and fears within them. How beautiful the lyrics they weave are of love when their hearts are riddled with the duress of longing. And as much as Emily, with all her romanticized ideals, has tried to lead her to believe otherwise, Brittany thinks love is not complicated a feeling at all.

Terrifying at times, surely, but simply magnificent.

Especially in quiet moments like this where she can simply watch Santana sleep and love her in silent regard.

She's not had many chances to wake before Santana since they've returned home. The dried tearstains she can see along the neckline of Santana's nightdress are an instant reminder of why. Santana always stays awake, holding her while she weeps, waiting until she's fallen asleep before even thinking of doing so herself. She waits until Brittany has slipped to dreams and the thuds of her heartbeat do not pound with ache for her sister but instead the measured rhythm of oblivion.

When Brittany succumbs to dreams of better days and longer nights upon blankets in the hayloft. Where the occasional fire fills her senses and she feels trapped beneath burning tents and sizzling flesh. Where Emily is both well and gone…

An imagined place of bliss and horror easily forgotten when she wakes to find Santana at her side.

Santana never mentions the marks on her arms and back but Brittany's seen them. The ones the exact shape of her nails and yet not at all attributed to the impassioned moments they've stolen away alone together. These are different marks, scared indents that are fresher upon Santana's skin in the morn than they ever are come dusk.

There's always more on the mornings Brittany wakes before her.

She's already counted five on Santana's arm alone.

And she knows once Santana wakes she'll not care. She'll smile at her as she always does, groggy and crooked. The marks are but a memory lost to the light of a new day.

Brittany feels far warmer in that moment than she will all day.

Right now though Santana still sleeps. The dawn light is not quite strong enough to rouse her on its own. They're not wrapped in each other as they were when eyelids grew heavy and heartbeats slowed to the pull of sleep, but Brittany can feel her body heat all the same. Their forearms rest beside one another, Brittany's hand palm-down whilst Santana's fingers lazily curl upward. She's sprawled on her back for once; head turned toward Brittany enough for her to see the serene expression upon her face. Brittany blinks against the sunlight just beginning to brighten outside the window across Santana. Her father had obviously pulled the curtains open when he woke earlier this morn. Had he not Brittany is sure she'd never have noticed the small dribble of saliva that's collected at the slightly open corner of Santana's mouth.

Smiling, Brittany burrows herself deeper into the pillow, her body sinking stomach-down into the mattress. Comfortable and content she brushes her littlest finger against Santana's. The smaller hand moves nearer to hers in time with the lungful of air Santana draws deep into her chest. When brown eyes open enough to find her own, the serene expressions remains, satisfied now as fingers thread into the empty spaces of the other's hand. It is more a place to rest their palms than a hold, gazes speaking for the touch they've left unfastened. Fond, happy, a hint of drowsy in the yawn Santana hides with a dip of her chin.

Brittany doesn't wish to leave this bed.

Her thumb traces a circle of a pattern just across the groove where Santana's wrist meets her palm. It is the lightest of touch, innocent in nature. Santana feels it heating low in her belly all the same. And given the playful smile she can gather from the half of Brittany's face not shrouded against her pillow, the intention is clear.

Her voice is husky, rough with the fading remnants of sleep as she asks, amused, "In your _father's_ bed of all places; _really_ Britt?"

The wry grin disappears almost immediately as fair skin flushes pink and Brittany turns her face square into the pillow. Her ears burn red and Santana can't help but chuckle as she rolls to her side and wraps Brittany in her arms.

"We don't have our own bed," Brittany mutters into the pillow. Then quieter yet, "And hay itches."

"I told you to stay on the blanket," Santana tells her gently. Hoping to coax Brittany into looking at her once more, she presses a lingering kiss beneath Brittany's ear. "We could go to the lake this afternoon when I get home?"

Brittany shifts at the question, turning her head enough for one eye to peek out from the depths of the pillow. "But it snowed just yesterday."

Santana grins as she rests her forehead against Brittany's temple. "Then you better stay on the blanket this time."

Brittany wishes they didn't need any other blankets than the one surrounding them now, here, on a warm bed. That instead of cold winds brushing against her neck it could only be Santana's lips. If only she'd the courage to tell her father what she's been wanting to for over a week now.

She so very much wants to tell him today.

Santana presses another kiss to her temple before untangling her arms from around Brittany. She is already up from the bed and pulling her nightdress over her head when Brittany turns onto her side.

"Today," Brittany says aloud, her own voice equally gruff with sleep but assured. "I'm going to tell him about us."

Santana holds the nightdress in a clump of fabric against her bare chest as she raises her brows at Brittany. This isn't the first morning she's heard such a proclamation. And as always, she asks, "Would you like me to stay?"

Brittany sits up in the bed, shaking her head as she picks at a few of the loose strings along the quilt edge. "I'll be all right on own. You have people to care for."

Santana smiles down at her softly. "You are included in those people you know. In fact, you're my first priority."

Brittany gives her a small, grateful smile in return. "I'll be okay; thank you though."

With a nod Santana turns back toward the dresser. Brittany's eyes are immediately drawn to her naked backside. She watches the muscles of Santana's shoulder move beneath smooth skin. The occasional scar, more healed now but still present, compressing and relaxing against taut muscles. Brittany shivers briefly. Those little reminders of what they've survived still sting as fresh in her heart as the day they were rendered.

Her thoughts are shaken though as Santana's voice fills the room. "Where did we leave those letters for the boys and Quinn?" she asks as she folds the nightdress and lays it atop the dresser. "I'll post them before heading to Dr. Nelson's."

"The mantle," Brittany replies, distracted, her focus somewhat hazy as she continues watching Santana dress.

Santana arches a brow in surprise at the answer. Brittany's entirely right of course, they'd left them there just before heading to the barn for a riding lesson with Apple. She doesn't know how she ever could have forgotten and yet Brittany so easily recalled the placement. She need only see the darker hue of blue eyes to know she didn't put them there herself. Not when Brittany's lips were upon her own and the letters quickly forgotten to the floor beside the fire.

Brittany crawls out from beneath the covers and to the far edge of the bed. Sitting up on her knees she raises her arms, gesturing Santana toward her. And once Santana is standing before her, just a bit below her eye line, Brittany smiles and begins clasping the remaining buttons unfastened along Santana's dress front. "Today will be a good day," Brittany tells her. It's the same thing she's said every morning this week.

"I hope so," Santana replies in kind. She truly does wish it too and yet can't ignore the prickle of doubt. Stilling Brittany's hands, she grasps them within her own, seeking the gaze of the woman before her. When blue eyes are focused upon her own she reaches up, brushing a segment of Brittany's tousled hair from over her forehead. "I just… no matter what he says to you today Brittany, know that I'm not going anywhere."

Brittany leans toward her, capturing a full top lip in a warm kiss. "I love you," she whispers, not wishing to pull away quite yet.

Santana draws her closer, smiling against Brittany's lips. "I love you too."

* * *

Santana is just as horrid a rider as she was a week ago. Endearingly so, though, Brittany thinks. She shouts encouragement to her from where she sits along the porch rail, watching as Santana guides Apple down the snowy path toward the road. In actuality she watches Apple trot himself down the path while Santana wobbles in the saddle, shivering and clutching the reins with the nervous intensity she usually only ever reserves for the bucket of chicken feed.

"Not so tight, San!" Brittany hollers, chuckling to herself when instead of adhering to her advice Santana's shoulders constrict more. Brittany takes a sip of her steaming tea, breathing in the crisp winter air and scent of the soothing herbs. "I'll see you soon!"

Santana lets go of the reins but for a second to wave farewell. The shaky smile she throws over her shoulders equally filled with nerves, but delighted nonetheless. Brittany leans her side against a porch beam, heart warmed as she continues watching Santana head to town. She doesn't hop down from her perch until Santana is gone from sight and her tea is drained to nothing save for a few crumbled leaves at the bottom of her mug.

She has a few morning chores to attend to, the first of which entail cleaning out Apple's stall. Setting her mug down on the rail, Brittany ensures the ends of her slacks are tucked snuggly into her boots before heading on toward the barn. A few tracks in the fresh snow give clue to her father's whereabouts somewhere out in the crop fields. He'd not yet cleared the corn stalks out from the summer past… Brittany need not dwell on the reason why they remain.

Stealing a glance over her shoulder toward her sister's window Brittany's steps grow heavier. Emily had still been sleeping when she'd gone to check on her this morning. She's not talked to her sister for a few days now. The few moments Emily's been awake enough to speak usually reserved for questions and care from Santana whilst Brittany sits at her side, too numb and scared to utter a word. She can still feel Emily's hand within her own; clammy, grip weak.

Brittany stuffs her own hands deep into the pockets of her coat to try and dispel the memory from her skin. She doesn't want to remember Emily's touch as anything aside from the assured hold her sister used to always take her hand with. She wants Emily's strength back, her cheeks to fill with weight and color… her heart to beat with the strong rhythm she once listened to on nights when sleep was long to come.

Santana tells her she's doing all she can but even Brittany's come to believe Emily's time can be now counted in days. Will it be nine or four? Another three days to spend with her or one?

Does it matter when she can't even meet her eyes without succumbing to fast tears?

Her legs carry her numbly into the barn and muscle memory alone has her reaching for the shovel beside the door. She tries to think of the task at hand but it's hard when her thoughts and heart are still sitting on that bed beside her dying sister.

Hendrick finds her not long after she's finished Apple's stall. The shovel is dragging behind her as she moves to unlatch the cows from their enclosure. He hates seeing Brittany so utterly distraught but knows there is little to be said or done to change it. He wonders more how much worse she'll be when the day comes that they finally lay Emily to rest beside their mother.

He smothers a cough into the crook of his elbow; trying not to let such thoughts plague him.

She notices him from the corner of her eye at first, simply standing in the doorway framed with the white of snow at his back. He's nothing but a dark shape against the rising sun. And yet even then she can still see the tired look about his posture, the heavy way he carries himself and the feel of his saddened gaze locking with her own.

"Hi Pa," she offers, voice passive. Her heart rate quickens as he moves forward.

"Hi sunshine," he greets her in kind, stepping into the barn enough for the light not to cast such dark shadows across his form. Brittany can see the beginnings of stubble growing out against his jaw and chin, the strain of sleepless nights etched into the skin beneath his eyes.

He looks worse than she's ever seen him.

She begins sweating anyway.

_Today._

"Did you need help in the fields?" she asks, watching as he arches his back and a few of the bones in his spine let out audible cracks. With a sigh and a gentle smile he leans down to place a kiss to the top of her head. The gesture doesn't calm her as it's always done, her stomach instead growing nauseous with unease.

"Don't you worry none for them," he tells her as he guides the half dozen cows out the back entrance of the barn and into the outdoor pen. Their legs are in awful need of a good stretch, snow be damned. He feels his lungs are in need of a stretch too; the cold air has been leaving him short of breath all morn.

As he rests against the gate Brittany's brow furrows. She twists the handle of the shovel between her hands, voicing her puzzlement aloud, "But it'll be planting season soon and—"

He waves his hand for her to hush, quieting anymore of her concern with an understanding grin. "It'll be a long winter yet Brittany. We've time."

Her heart stops beating entirely at _that_ word.

Time is something they've precious little of.

Brittany's face drains of color but Hendrick sees it not, busy as he is latching the gate back into place. She holds the shovel tight in her grip, knuckles splashed with white as she tries to temper her suddenly empty breaths.

The conversation they exchange unravels easily, though fragmented. Brittany feels not within her skin, watching it from a far as she screams to herself to simply tell him.

"Santana's gone down to town?" he asks.

_Say it now!_

Her answer is automatic and clipped. "Yes."

_It's all right!_

"Was Emily awake before you saw her out?"

_Tell him! … Just tell him._

"No."

The locket suddenly feels very heavy where it rests over her heart, searing almost against her skin. She touches it gingerly from overtop her coat, fingertips trembling. He'll love her still… _he must_.

Hendrick can see a struggle within his daughter, feeling his own worries come forward for her as she clutches tightly to the coat over her chest. "Brittany," he murmurs, pained as he hurries toward her.

" _I love her_ ," she breathes out, the whispered words as much a current of relief as they now are a burden of nerves in wait of his response.

He's stopped halfway to her, the echo of her softly spoken confession glaring loudly in his ears. Somehow, he knows. Instantly _knows_ she's not speaking of Emily. Not in that tone. Not as stolen smiles and twined limbs fill his mind.

Brittany pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, wary of her father's reaction. He's not moved a muscle, his gaze unfocused where it's settled on her hand. She shifts, uncomfortable and anxious beneath his stilled eyes.

He blinks at her, the context of her words still so muddled in his mind as he asks slowly, deliberately, "You're in love with... Santana?"

Brittany's once hesitant demeanor sharpens. A soft smile just starting to pull at the corners of her lips. "I am." The accompanying nod in assurance plummets the last of his reserve. He's heard right. "Pa?"

He wets his lips. "That's," the words just won't come forward. He runs a hand through his hair, surprised to find his arm shaking as he brings it back down. "I d-don't know what to say..."

Brittany lets the shovel fall against the side of the cattle enclosure. "You don't have to say anything," she tells him gently as she bridges the space separating them. The closer her proximity the more heightened Hendrick's senses become. He doesn't know what to do with his hands let alone the turmoil of feeling bubbling in his gut. His daughter's next words, pained as they sound, tug at his heart. "I'd like it if you looked at me though."

He squeezes his eyes shut instead. "Brittany, this is—"

She sucks in a ragged breath. "You can't look at me… can you?"

_You hate me_ , is all he hears.

His eyes snap to meet hers in an instant. And there she is standing before him. His same Brittany and yet all at once different. This Brittany the one he was always afraid and simultaneously hoping she'd become. Strong, willful, keen... a woman now amidst the heartfelt blue eyes of the girl who fled this home that night so long ago. _When had she grown so?_ When was it she no longer needed his comfort? How long has he spent praying for her return only to now have her home and looking so _broken_ before him...

She's still his daughter.

He cannot bear seeing such hurt in her eyes.

" _I love you_ , Brittany. Don't ever doubt that," he tells her, earnest as he finds a place for his hands on her shoulders. The solid support he's always shown her, needed now once more. Hope returns to her watery gaze and he offers her as understanding a smile as he can. There's reason for her unnatural feelings. Brittany's always been different. It is one of the very things he loves so much about her. So it is with this consideration that he begins to say, "I think you've grown confused, sunshine. You were acting as a man for so long and it—"

Brittany shrugs free from his hold. "I'm not _confused_ ," she snarls out, eyes narrowed. She'd been afraid he'd not think her mind in place. "I was _never_ a man to her. We love one another _as we are_."

Hendrick does not know what shocks him more, that she is speaking so honestly to him or the utter grievance laced within her words.

He sputters, disbelieving. "You're both women!" he exclaims, a brief panic filling him as he glances over her shoulder to ensure no other ears are privy to this exchange. It's a fleeting fear though; the nearest neighbor is at least a quarter hour's walk down the road. He stumbles back beneath the weight of her conviction and the ill feeling now erupting in his gut. There's a prickle of sweat along his brow as he meets her gaze and utters shakily, "That's never...it's _impossible_."

Brittany's previously hardened expression softens. He seems lost. "We're not any different from anyone else in love," she tells him.

"But you are! _You are_!" Hendrick explodes, coughing roughly and motioning toward her and nowhere all at once. His cheeks burn red as his eyes widen. "Dear god, if anyone was to discover this!"

Brittany rushes to his side, trying to help him to stand upright even though he brushes her assistance away. "We know, Pa. I just couldn't... I _can't_ lie to you."

He leans against the enclosure gate, eyes downcast, breathing hard. All he can think of are the moments he's left them alone, the bed they've been sharing… "It would have been best if you did," he grits out.

Brittany pales. _He wishes I'd never told him._ "…Pa?"

"What am I supposed to do?" he asks, weakened as he looks up at her. Looks at her like he's never done before…

Looks at her the same way he's looked at boys he's never felt worthwhile enough to share a dance with her.

Brittany swallows down the ache forming in her chest at his gaze. She must appeal him. She cannot lose him. "Love her too," she answers, voice a quiver of a plead. "She's so smart, Pa. Smarter than anyone I've ever met. And she'll take good care of Emily, she is so good to me. She never let anyone hurt me while we were away. So strong and kind and—"

He raises a hand, shaking his head tersely. "Stop, Brittany, _please_."

"I thought you—"

His eyes meet hers, unbending and resigned. "She can't stay here no more."

"What… why?" Brittany asks, confusion quickly giving way to despair and anger. "There ain't nothing wrong with her!"

" _She just can't_!" he shouts, scaring her with the level and force of his demand. The animals grow silent in the wake of his booming voice. He can't meet her eyes. Not with the way tears have begun to stream openly down her cheeks. _It is for the best,_ he tells himself as he pushes past her to head back out to the fields. The choked sob she lets out when he steps to the snow breaks his heart but he doesn't turn back.

He'd promised Klara he'd always look after their girls.

He refuses to lose them both.

* * *

The usual plume of smoke rising from the chimney is missing as Santana guides Apple up the path. She wonders if Hendrick has been too busy to rekindle the fire or if, like Brittany was wont to do, he'd simply forgotten. Choosing to believe the former, for Brittany has been quite mindful these past few weeks, she gives Apple's hind a few quick pats. His pace quickens and she leans forward in the saddle as Brittany taught her.

She hopes the worry filling in her gut is for nothing.

Once the cabin is in view she dismounts Apple, cautious, for the steps are vacant.

Brittany always waits for her.

Growing anxious, Santana quickly ties Apple's reins to one of the porch railings. With him secure she heads inside. The front room proves just as empty. Kitchen equally devoid of Hendrick or Brittany.

But not devoid of neglect.

A thin layer of smoke fills the room, wafting up from the sole pot atop the stove. Santana hurries over, grabbing the handle with a fistful of her dress as she moves it to rest atop the adjacent wooden counter. The water in the pot has long since boiled out, potatoes seared and burnt along the bottom. Coughing against the fumes Santana steps back, breathing into the crook of her elbow. Hendrick was not one to abandon his duties. Nor ever let such food go to waste.

Santana fears where they've gone, Brittany especially.

_Had she finally told him?_

She needs to speak with Emily. Maybe she'd overheard? Making her way back toward Emily's room Santana tries not to let her worry show so evidently upon her face. Her heart is already racing, hands unsteady as she ties the mask around her lower face. Giving a quick knock against the door, she opens it, stepping inside without waiting for a response.

Emily is barely awake, barely breathing at that, from where she rests lying at an odd angle on her bed. A book rests in her lap as Santana comes to sit by her side and help her into a more comfortable position. She must have fallen asleep while reading… _Brittany is always the one to ensure she's comfortable._

Pushing aside her own wants for the moment, Santana asks, "How are you feeling?"

Emily's eyes blearily crack open. "Must you all always… ask that first?" she ponders aloud, breathless. "There is weather… to be mentioned."

Santana purses her lips, face warming. "I'm sorry, I—"

There's a hint of a smirk along pale lips. "A joke, Santana…. it was a joke," Emily tells her, unable to fully smile as she wishes to. Relegated to her state she tries opening her eyes wider, hoping the blur of a shape beside her will sharpen to some semblance of the woman she's come to think as a sister. "I feel as well… as can be. Yourself?"

Santana tucks Emily's braided hair back over her shoulder. "As well as can be," she answers, smiling softly. "Has Britt come to see you?"

Emily sighs, nodding. "She fought with Pa."

Santana hopes Emily does not hear the hitch in her voice as she asks, "Did you hear any of it?"

"No," Emily says, catching just a hint of relief in the way Santana's body sinks a bit further on the mattress. "Britt was upset though… She came in here after and just sat there… Wouldn't say a word."

Santana closes her eyes, inhaling deeply. "Do you know where she's gone now?"

Emily gives her a small smile, "The only place she ever goes..."

_The lake_. "Thanks Emily," Santana whispers, leaning over to give the girl a quick and careful hug.

Before Santana can make it to the door, though, Emily's voice carries throughout the room, stronger somehow than it's been in days. "Santana?" she calls, waiting for the haze of dark eyes to turn back upon her. Santana does so, anticipating Emily's next words. She's impatient to leave but stays, knowing if Emily were to need her in this moment Brittany would understand. She doesn't expect what Emily tells her next. "Whatever is to happen to me…I know everything will be well… because you'll take care of her."

Santana wants to laugh, anything to keep herself from the overwhelming feeling filling her heart. "That's just it though," she says, shaking her head with a smile. " _She's_ the one who takes care of me."

* * *

Brittany thinks it's just as well she forgot her coat when she came out here to steal away. She's finally starting to feel as numb to emotion as the exposed skin of her hands and neck have become to the cold. She continues twisting the locket between her chilled fingers regardless, not so much feeling the metal as she is desperate to cling to the father who sat for the photo contained within. The man who was supposed to have opened his arms and told her all was well when she'd confessed to her true feelings for Santana.

She hadn't expected to be sitting beside the lake, crying until the tears dried against her face and the ice along the bank licked through the leather of her boots. She can't move though; she is unwilling to return home only for him to look at her once more with those disillusioned eyes.

Does he realize what he's said? The choice he's forced her to make?

She _can't_ leave Emily.

She can't let Santana go.

She needs them both…

Brittany bites her bottom lip hard, almost drawing blood as she chastises herself for running from Emily as she did. She just couldn't sit beside her any longer. Not when it makes her feel so heated with defeat, so useless. As if her skin has turned to coals, her heart sure to melt straight through her chest… _and if I were to stay any longer I'd die right with her._

She clutches tighter to the necklace, unwilling to try and open it, knowing that just looking at the photo of the sister she once knew will only hurt her more.

She's long run out of tears when the sounds of footsteps in the thick snow meet her ears.

She doesn't turn. She knows who's found her.

The lake stretches out before Santana, edges frozen in a wide arch near the shallows. The ice is stained red with the rays of the sun just beginning to sink beneath the tree line. The water is still, calm amidst the silence and gravity that seems to weigh down the air surrounding the small lake.

The heavy atmosphere centers on the lone woman sitting hunched near the water's edge.

Her back is to Santana, short blonde hair swaying in the light wind.

Somewhere in the distance ice cascades down from a tree, its echo cracking loudly across the lake clearing.

Santana feels a chill take firm grasp of her heart as she slowly makes her way to Brittany's side.

Brittany doesn't flinch as a coat is draped over her shoulders, or show signs of appreciation as Santana squats down behind her. A kiss is dropped to her neck, long awaited and warm against the frozen numbness of her skin.

"Found you," Santana whispers, hooking her chin atop Brittany's shoulder as she begins to try and bring warmth to the arms hanging loosely at Brittany's side. _She's so cold_ , Santana worries, rubbing her hands a little firmer up and down Brittany's arms. Her gaze moves out across the water to where Brittany's focus has yet to drift. The sun dips lower yet, air chilling further as the ice grows darker. Santana need not asked what happened. She knows Brittany will tell her.

When she's ready, the words will come.

Santana will wait.

She's here now.

Brittany closes her eyes as she takes Santana's hands and crosses them over her chest with her own, wrapping herself in a tight embrace. Santana hugs her stronger, scared for what's brought Brittany such despair. Brittany turns her head, seeking comfort Santana provides with a gentle press of her forehead against Brittany's temple. Both are trembling, the sky growing bleaker with every passing minute.

"I-I…" Brittany stammers, throat swelling. Santana's hold tightens. "I…I _told him_."

"What did he—" Santana begins to ask only to find her own voice suddenly heavy with fear. She knows Brittany's answer will not be in their favor, not with the way she's found her out here so shattered. She draws her as close as possible; trying to lure what little strength she can from the meager warmth of Brittany's still chilled body. But Brittany's heart pounds hard, solid from where Santana can feel it pressed against her hand atop Brittany's collarbone. Closing her eyes, she breathes in the faded scent of hay along Brittany's shoulder. "Wh-what did he say?"

"He s-says you have to _go_ ," Brittany chokes out. She turns more into Santana's arms, their eyes finally meeting as she beseeches, "You can't… _not now_." A sob catches in her throat. She can't do this without her. " _San_..."

Santana pulls Brittany into her chest, shaking her head as she whispers words of promise to erase the heartache Hendrick's brought. They don't feel the ice sticking to their knees and legs or the way the frigid air burns in their lungs. Stars begin to dot the sky but they stay that way, holding one another in the cold snow whilst hot tears stain their cheeks.

Neither willing to let go.

* * *

They've not released hold of the other's hand as they journey back to the farm beneath the dark of night. Brittany guides them, quiet, her steps slow, prolonging this last moment they have with one another before facing her father. She dreads what what else he could say to her, but fears more the calloused words he might spit out upon seeing Santana.

_He's not like Santana's father_ , she reminds herself again, repeating the phrase like a mantra as she leads them onward.

_He'd not ever hurt anyone._

But it's hard to believe when she still feels the force of his earlier resentment pierced deeply in her heart.

Santana is equally silent by her side, lost within despondent thoughts of the promise she's soon to break. Hendrick will never allow her to stay, no matter how eloquently spoken and heartfelt her appeal. She's not welcome in his home, not whilst embracing such _unthinkable_ love for his daughter. Brittany's not spoken of the words they exchanged but Santana had no need to ask. Why else would he wish her banished?

She's expecting nothing less than to walk into that home only to be immediately turned on her heel and forced out.

Brittany can't forsake her sister to follow. Santana won't allow her to even if she tried.

_Where could I even go at this hour?_

A light snow has begun to fall, collecting atop their shoulders and lashes as the smell of hay bales fills the air. The home comes into view far sooner than either had hoped. They move closer to one another as they approach.

Santana's only relief comes from the sight of Apple's nose peeking out from within his stall window. But the relief is short lived. It was clear Hendrick had moved him. Leaving animals out in the cold? Unforgiveable. _Now he has all that much more reason to see me go._

"I hate him," Brittany mutters.

Santana squeezes her hand. "You don't."

"He can't make you go."

"It's his home."

"He said it was yours too."

Santana lets out a sigh at the spite in Brittany's tone. " _Before_ he knew," she tells her. "You can't have expected him to be all right with this. He needs—"

"Why not?" Brittany counters, frustrated. "Why is it so _wrong_?"

Santana pulls them to a stop before the light spilling out from the kitchen window can touch upon their feet. "It's not wrong. He just needs time."

Brittany scoffs, motioning up toward the window. "You didn't see the way he looked at me, Santana. It was as if…almost like—"

"As if you were no longer his daughter?" Santana asks, her gaze softening.

Brittany visibly swallows, nodding. "It hurt more than everything he said," she whispers as she draws their linked hands up to her chest. "I can't lose you too, San."

Before a quiver can even strike upon Brittany's bottom lip Santana steps forward, capturing it between her own. Brittany inhales deeply through her nose as she tugs Santana closer, needing the kiss to ground her. She hopes her father is watching them, if only so he can see how much she needs the woman he wishes expelled from their home.

"You're not losing me," Santana whispers against Brittany's lips, earnest. Brittany kisses her back harder anyway.

He's sitting in his chair by the fireplace when they finally enter.

Santana closes the door behind them, urging down the anxiety rising in her gut as he slowly stands to his feet. His eyes are immediately drawn to their clasped hands, expression an unmistakable mixture of grief and offense.

"I'll allow you to stay the night but come morn you need to leave, Miss Santana," he tells her, voice lowered with the stern clout of a wronged father.

Santana keeps her shoulders pulled back, chin level so as to meet his gaze should he ever remove his own from their hands. "You once welcomed me without judgment," she tells him, mindful to keep her own voice agreeable yet strong.

His lips thin as his gaze finally locks upon hers. "I'm grateful for the help you've given Emily but you _cannot_ stay any longer."

"Why?" she asks. She doesn't even believe he can give word to his reason, not with the panicked glint now clear in his eyes. He hadn't been expecting her to even ask.

His eyes shift to Brittany, narrowing with frustration as he demands of her, "Let go of that hand, Brittany."

Brittany twines their fingers in response. "If you make her go, I will too."

Hendricks expression contorts, horrified by the proclamation. "No, sunshine… _please_. Y-you _can't_ …"

Santana can see Hendrick's resolve crumbling, and clearer yet the love he's always held for his eldest daughter. She won't break this family apart, not when she knows how much Brittany will regret leaving her sister… how torn her heart will be that she was not by her side when Emily finally does pass. How heartbroken Hendrick will be at losing not one but both his children.

With steeled nerves and breath held, Santana lets go of Brittany's hand.

"San… _no_ ," Brittany whispers, reaching for her. Santana gives her head a shake, gently taking Brittany's wrists and placing her arms back down by her sides.

"It's okay, Britt," Santana tells her, giving her as confident a smile as she can muster despite the tears she can feel brimming in her eyes. "I'm sure Dr. Nelson has a room to spare me. I won't be far."

Brittany shakes her head, crying freely. "And if not? _You_ _promised._ "

Santana can't ignore the sting in her chest at having her words echoed back at her so brokenly. She steps closer, far less space between them than she knows Hendrick is comfortable seeing but she cares not. All she cares for is ensuring Brittany that all will be well. " _I'm not leaving you_ ," Santana whispers, releasing one of Brittany's wrists to instead brush away a few of the tears from where they rest against Brittany's flushed cheek. "Just here."

"But this is your home…" Brittany murmurs, eyes desperately searching Santana's own for answer.

Santana pulls her into a hug. "My home is _you_ ," she whispers, ignoring the sounds of growled protest from Hendrick for them to part. She can feel Brittany bury her face against her neck, her hold tightening with the refusal to give release. Santana closes her eyes, unknowing of when she'll get the chance to hold Brittany so again. Tomorrow? Three days from now? A…a month? " _Please find me_ ," she begs of her.

"I will, I swear it," Brittany promises, squeezing Santana when she feels the other woman tremble in her arms. " _I'm so sorry_."

"Brittany, let her go!" Hendrick hollers out.

"Give him time," Santana urges, her words hurried. "I love you."

Brittany clings to her. "I love you too," she whispers, voice thick with tears.

" _Now_ , _Brittany_!" Hendrick finally pulls Brittany from Santana's embrace, turning his daughter toward the back hall. "Get to bed."

Santana's gaze seeks out Brittany's once more, heart twisting at the absolute hurt reflected in the deep blue. She looks to Hendrick next, squaring her reserve before telling him, "If you should need anything for Emily, please ask after me."

He doesn't answer.

"We will," Brittany assures her, glaring at her father's back. "Emily needs you."

"Go, Brittany, _please_ ," Hendrick grits out through clenched teeth.

With one more looked spared in sorrow to Santana, Brittany retreats.

Seconds later the bedroom door closes with a slam, shaking the foundations of the small home. The sound brings finality to Hendrick's mind whilst qualm fills Santana's. She's alone with him now and braces herself for whatever words he may wish to impart upon her in cruel judgment.

She's heard them all before.

_It will be just like the others_.

Yet why does she fear them now more than ever?

He's not looking at her when he speaks next, his eyes rooted to the floorboards just beside her feet. "I expect you to be gone come first light."

She's surprised by the almost gentle tone of his voice. "I will be," she tells him, matching his cadence. He gives a terse nod, turning to join Brittany for the night. Santana cannot hold her tongue any longer. "She's stronger than you know, Mr. Pierce."

He stops in the darkened arch of the hall entrance, head turned to the side but gaze still upon the floor. He knows she's right. Brittany's proven so every day since her return. He cannot admit it though… not to the _woman_ responsible for the change. He shakes his head and tells her instead, "And you're no man."

She doesn't respond. But he also knows she never would have. ' _She's smart Pa_ ,' Brittany's voice echoes in his mind. ' _She is so good to me…'_

He can feel Santana's eyes, the heat of her scrutiny, upon his back as he leaves her to the front room. The look follows him though. Inescapable.

Brittany is wearing it from where she stands, waiting for him just inside the bedroom. He expected as much. Yet in her eyes? The animosity hurts all the more. He's lost her trust, her respect… perhaps even her love.

"Brittany, I—" he begins to say, his voice once more softened in tone.

"No, _no_ ," she interrupts before he can say anything more to her. "There's nothing left for you to say."

"This is for the best, sunshine."

She flinches upon hearing him call her by that name. "It's not right for anyone but you!" she exclaims, pushing him away as he tries to reach out for her. "And you've _no right_ to do this."

"I'm your _father_ ," he states, the words falling short of the power he'd hoped to deliver them with. He's still so shaken from his exchange with Santana prior. "I've the right as a man to see to what is _best_ for my family."

Brittany scowls up at him. "And you're making her leave."

He grabs Brittany by the arm before she can leave the bedroom. She stares up at him, challenging him to say anything further to her. "I won't have you leaving this room to see her none either. She is gone now, Brittany. You'll forget her soon enough."

"I'd _never_ forget her," she hisses at him. "I'd sooner stop breathing first."

He lets her go, watching as she makes her way to the door. He can't let her run out to that woman. He can't lose her. "You wonder why Emily's so sick?" he asks, knowing these words shouldn't ever be leaving his lips, but he can't stop them now… not when he'd do anything to have his daughter back. Even if it's with bared detestation.

Her hand ceases in its grasp for the door.

"Did you never once stop to think perhaps _you've_ brought this upon her?" he asks, recoiling as Brittany's eyes widen, the last of the regard for him seeming to disappear as her gaze darkens.

She knows what he's just implied. She can't stop her hand from shaking because of it. "I'm _only_ staying for Emily," she tells him, voice hardened, low and spurned.

Desperate, he beeches, "Brittany…I didn't—I'm sorry! You must know I don't blame you. Please sunshine, zie redden."

"Reason?!" Brittany explodes. "You think I'm killing her!"

"I don't!"

From out in the living room Santana can hear the argument escalating, shouts lapsing into Dutch. She sinks into Hendrick's chair, exhausted. Emily's bell begins to ring, the angered voices too heated and lost to their fight to hear the soft call for help. Pushing herself up Santana makes her way down the hall. She bites back the hurt upon hearing the betrayed way Hendrick hollers out her name as she unsteadily ties one of the masks over her face. She can't fully ignore them though, even as she steps inside Emily's room and closes the door in hopes of drowning out their quarrel.

The younger Pierce's eyes are wide with anxiety as they lock with Santana's own. She's breathing hard, her lungs using far more effort than Santana knows she's capable of. The fragile heart beneath those ribs isn't meant to be stressed so. Calmly, knowing she mustn't give Emily more reason for alarm, Santana sits by her side and takes one of the girl's hands within her own.

"It's okay," Santana whispers, managing to bring half a smile to her lips. "It'll be all right."

Brittany screams something Santana doesn't understand but Emily cringes and grips firmer to Santana's hand.

"Don't… leave her," Emily breathes out with great effort. Santana slams her eyes shut, not wishing to see the tormented look in Emily's eyes. A hand tugs feebly on Santana's coat arm and the tears she's been trying so hard to keep from Emily's sight finally break free. "Please…"

Santana breaks down. "I'm so sorry Em," she whimpers, collapsing to the bed beside Emily. Thin arms drape over her back, holding her as best as Emily is able as she whispers words of time and repent to come. But all Santana can do is cling to her, crying as she repeats, "I'm so sorry."

Emily thinks her Pa can be rather stupid sometimes.

When the first inkling of dawn light begins to spread across the horizon Brittany and Hendrick emerge from the bedroom after a sleepless night. A young fire burns in the hearth, logs neatly slanted in the hungry flames. The borrowed blanket is folded and draped over Hendricks's chair, warm yet from the body once wrapped in its soft comfort.

Brittany knows if she were to look outside there'd be a trail of fresh footsteps leading down the snowy porch steps.

She slumps to the chair, defeated.

Hendrick goes to start breakfast, relieved.

_She'd kept her word._

Santana's gone.

* * *

**January 27th, 1863  
** Fairest of greetings to the fairest of ladies,

I hope my letter finds you both well. I am sorry to hear of the troubles Mr. Pierce has brought you both upon learning of your relationship. Though I am most glad you've found time to see one another despite his (and excuse my language here) shit demands. From the sounds of it he seems a might terrified of what you've found in one another, and yet I can understand the grief of a father when not one but both of his daughters seem to be forsaking him. Don't judge him so harshly then; perhaps it will take some time for him to see what we all already see in the both of you. You're not hurting no one loving each other, don't you ever let anyone tell you any different.

I also dearly hope Emily is faring better as well. I feel her just as much a sister as the two of you have become in my heart. Please let her know we pray for her every night.

Things have been doing better for my family now that my Pop has found work down at the rail yard in town. Stacey misses Bret quite a lot and I'm wondering just how to tell her you've suddenly transformed to a woman. Perhaps you've a story I should tell her? You always did spin the most fantastical lies to us back at camp! I jest of course; most those lies were from Santana obviously. Her utter denial of harboring any affection for you is still leaving me in fits of chuckles. And I can see that eye roll from way over here Santana so no use detailing it for me in your next letter. Also, as a warning, you may want to ebb a bit in the details you share with Quinn of some of the moments between you and Brittany. Noah has caught on to the nature of some of your letters and has started a one-man expedition to weasel one from beneath Quinn's watch. And while he does so, I am more than happy to escort the lovely Miss Fabray to town for an evening of dance and good company. Do not tell her I have said so though! I am trying to find the best time to announce my intentions to her. She's gotten very into the women's suffrage movement in town and has been nigh impossible to approach unless she's alone. Rachel helps none of course, because when Quinn's not in town with them she's in Rachel's company, and as you both know, it's damn near impossible to get a word in with that one always about.

I do wish your opinions on another important matter though. Noah and I have been thinking of starting up a venture together. Perhaps a delivery service of sorts maybe? Then we could see you girls more often if we need to ferry goods to Lima. I'm already saving up for a horse and he's working to collect enough for us to fix up one of the Berry's old coaches they've been kind enough to gift us. Evans and Puckerman Express, at your expedited service! Tell me your honest opinion, Santana. You're the only one I know who won't hold judgments.

Please write soon. I miss you both! Know you've always a place here if anything were to ever sour. I am hoping it won't have to come to that.

All my love to you both,  
Sam Evans

* * *

**February 6** **th** **, 1863**

Santana must have read his letter at least a dozen times by now, still unsure just how to begin her response. There is so much she wishes to tell him and yet more she cannot will herself to impart. Her visits with Brittany are so few and far in-between they have become indistinguishable from her dreams. Had they truly sat out by the lake last week, huddled together for warmth and lost to the taste of the others lips? She'd dreamed of it the other night and again just this past evening.

But their reunions don't end as sweetly as the visions she paints in her sleep.

Hendrick had nearly found them together once just a few days after she'd been forced from the home.

Santana refused to come anywhere near the farm for a good while after that.

One thing is certain of the times they are both able to steal away together. They always seem to part on poor terms. Brittany, usually so rarely upset, is now always with a frown upon her lips.

Santana mentioned it to her once only to be met with a morbid response.

"It's irremovable San," Brittany had told her. "You'll have to stitch my lips up because I feel I'll not ever smile again otherwise."

Their time apart is most taxing upon Brittany, her father seeming to either ignore Santana's existence entirely or lambast any of Brittany's attempts to engage him in conversation where Santana was sure to be mentioned. He wanted her forgotten, plain and simple. And he knew Brittany would never leave, not with Emily so ill and their time together lessening by the day.

"He'll come around," Santana always whispers before they part ways. "Please don't lose hope, Brittany."

"I've not lost it," Brittany will say, eyes ever more dulling in color. "It's just far away like you."

That had been a week ago. They haven't seen one another since.

Hendrick is making it so impossible.

Santana lets out a sigh.

_Shit demands entirely_ , she thinks, smiling wryly at Sam's choice of words. She readjusts his letter and the blank sheet of paper propped against a book in her lap. Staring over at the clock in the foyer Santana let's out another long sigh. She's sat on this window ledge for near an hour, and before this within Dr. Nelson's study for two. Three hours and yet not one soul has knocked upon the door in search of care.

Bustling is not a term Santana would attribute to Dr. Nelson's practice. His wife prefers to call it manageable. Santana has a few more opt choices. Perhaps idle, unexciting… downright nonexistent. He sees perhaps one or two patients a day, the rest of his time spent absorbed in chatter with friends down at the tavern or napping upon the sofa in his den. He's a smart man, clearly knowledgeable in the most rudimentary of medicine, but Lima is a small town and as its sole practicing doctor he hasn't much business to attend. It seems not at all on most days.

He's assured Santana come the warmer months that is to change. That they'll be ushered to and fro all across the hillsides tending to the fatigued, sick and injured alike. Supplies will still trickle in, the war effort foremost to the receive goods, but they'll have enough. Far more than his empty shelves boast now.

The practice has slowed with winter. His visits now offer care to those with fever and maladies easily cured with rest and time.

Between Mrs. Schuester's bouts of imagined illness and Emily's continued care, he hasn't anyone else to tend to.

There's the occasional accident; a drag harrow run over a foot in need of sutures or a nasty fall resulting in bones in need of proper splints. All patched quickly and with little fuss. Nothing at all like the wounded men who poured into the medical tents, their screams still sometimes haunting her dreams at night. Or even those riddled with the vilest of illness, seeking cure from their beds in Cincinnati. Santana's seen none of what she's grown accustomed and upon occasions finds herself missing the hustle of both worlds.

Lima has certainly been an adjustment of sorts.

But one she is growing to appreciate.

A home.

He visits _her_ home most of all. Emily is his only true concern and has been for quite some time now.

"I just don't know what else to do for her," he always says upon his return from the Pierce farm. "The poor family."

Santana cannot accompany him on those trips, offering instead an excuse in order to remain behind. A lie. If he notices how heavily her words carry he mentions it not. Consumption is not a disease to be taken lightly and he does not blame her in the least for wishing to avoid the Pierce farm. The family is in a rather depressing state as of late. Hendrick a haggard shell of himself; Brittany as unable to string together a sentence in greeting as she is to allow even the faintest of expression to her face.

It pains Santana to hear of them torn so.

She assists Dr. Nelson in all other calls. Sometimes he even sends her alone, too comfortable from where he rests reclined in his chair to trek halfway across town through the wind and snow. She's young, willing and more than apt in medicine. A far better study than his son ever was, bless his bureaucratic soul. On days she ventures in his place he watches her ready to go. She tucks his bag beneath her arm, an infectious grin upon her face.

She always thanks him before leaving.

As if he's bestowed upon her a splendid responsibility.

And she does it for nothing, not a pence aside from his word that Emily is to be given the best care he can possibly provide.

It is the fairest trade Dr. Nelson feels he's ever agreed to in all his 61 years upon the Earth.

Santana will make a fine replacement once he passes.

In her hands, he knows, Lima will be cared for.

And it's rather nice having another woman about the house, especially one that speaks to him with such kind regard. She's always apologizing for having overstayed her welcome but he waves the statement away for the absurdity it is.

Santana feels beholden to him nonetheless. Were it not for his kindness she is sure she'd be sleeping in a bed at the Berry manor instead. A large one, possibly frilled beyond tasteful belief, just to spite her for all the wrong she caused during her previous stay. A bed far, far from home.

She much prefers her bed here.

It is small and yet all at once too spacious without the familiar form of Brittany's body nestled beside her own. She misses her most at nights, when her mind is consumed with thoughts of her well-being. Who holds Brittany now when the nightmares take hold of her dreamscape? Who will smile at her when she wakes and ensure her all is well?

The thoughts depress her and she forces herself to sleep to keep from feeling ever more beleaguered.

The voices and sounds of the town beyond her window help distract from the fears trying to grasp her heart and mind. She'd grown accustomed to the quiet of the farmstead, her new surroundings a bustle of noise thanks to the street down below. The first few nights spent in her new bed were replete with the drunken shouts of men stumbling from the nearby tavern. They wave to her sometimes, hollering for her to join them.

She draws her curtains with a disdainful sneer down to them and curls into her quilt instead, wishing for familiar arms and their warm bed.

During the day Santana sits by the window in the front room, reading from one of the doctor's journals. And just as the night before, thoughts of Brittany resurface. Her focus becomes lost, gaze straying to the eastern hillsides.

Is Brittany tending to the hens now? Has she read to Emily yet today? Will she pause in her chores and stare west and think of her?

_Am I truly so pathetically bereaved without her?_

She need not answer herself.

Tucking her legs up against the windowsill, Santana sets back to finishing her reply to Sam's letter. She's barely able to write but a few sentences when there's a knock at the door. The second today.

A new record.

Placing the letter aside Santana stands and smothers down her wrinkled skirt as best she's able. Again that same pang of ache surfaces in her chest. She's not the money to afford her own clothes, relying still on the few dresses Brittany was able to bring her at their first meeting.

_Don't think of her_ , she reminds herself, knowing the thoughts will only lead to her focus being lost once more. And now more than ever she needs to keep her wits.

Another two knocks and Santana hurries over, excited for the prospect of a patient or, at this point, even Mrs. Nelson's return from lunch with her friends. She opens the door with restrained flourish, keeping her grin in perfect cheek. "Good day, how may— Brittany!"

Santana's heart lurches in her chest as she stares, stunned at the woman standing on Dr. Nelson's second floor landing. A light snow dusts Brittany's slouched shoulders; Berry's yellow scarf haphazardly slung around her neck. Her arms are plunged deep into her coat pockets for warmth, cheeks and nose tinged red from cold. Both shiver as their eyes meet, Brittany's so utterly crushed by the less than receptive greeting.

"Hi San," she mutters out.

" _Brittany_ ," Santana stresses, eyes darting down the stairwell at her back before once more locking upon the blue before her. "You shouldn't be here."

"I know," Brittany tells her, shifting upon her feet uncomfortably. Now that she's here she's forgotten what she wished to say. It was so easy to repeat it to herself on the walk, imaging how elated Santana would be to open the door and find her. But that's changed now; Santana's too fidgety with nerves. She hates what her father has done to them. Her shoulders tense and she must push aside any more thoughts of him before her anger gets the best of her again. Her throat is still sore from their quarrel this morning. Her clenched fist brushes against the folded paper in her pocket. Brittany withdraws the letter and holds it out for Santana. "This came for you in the post yesterday. I think it's from Quinn."

She hadn't come all this way just to deliver her a letter, Santana thinks. Her expression softens. "Thank you, I'll… I'll read it later," she stammers some when she takes the letter from Brittany's hand and their fingers brush for the first time in little over a week. The rush of heat is still as present as ever, more so now after time apart. She quickly retracts her hand and tucks the letter into the pocket of her skirt. "Did you need—"

Brittany's lips are suddenly on hers, pushing her back inside the apartment foyer. Santana's back meets the wall as Brittany pulls the front door closed with a slam. The coat stand rattles at Santana's side at the impact, wall vibrating against her back. Her hands are in Brittany's hair before she's even registered the move, her mind still a flurry of dazed thoughts and feeling as Brittany presses her body closer. She groans and kisses her back harder.

Unwilling to part they stumble along the wall and backward into Dr. Nelson's study, Brittany's coat shed to the floor, her scarf and Santana's button-down sweater down with it. The backs of Santana's thighs meet his desk and Brittany lifts her by the hips, easily settling her atop. Santana tugs her closer, legs locking behind Brittany's knees as lips bruise and swell with the hunger of the kiss. Brittany's fingers begin making quick work of the buttons along the chest of Santana's blouse. Her knuckles brush against bare skin, a gasp soon issuing from Santana's throat. They finally must break apart, lungs desperate to fill with much needed air. Eyes closed as they savor the feel of being so near one another.

Brittany steps away, overwhelmed, needing the distance to uncloud her mind and the desires still stirring deep within her belly for the disheveled woman perched at the edge of Dr. Nelson's desk. Disheveled in a manner that Brittany finds beautiful, dark hair beginning to spill undone from the bun low at the back of Santana's neck, cheeks flushed with the rush of exhilaration, eyes heavy, obscured with longing. She aches to taste those lips again but denies herself the want, widening the breadth between them more.

She needed that moment, however short lived it was, but she's come here with other purpose.

"Britt?" Santana reaches for her with an outstretched hand, brow knotted and chest still rising and falling with shortened breaths.

Brittany can't find the words though. Santana is gazing at her with such utter patience and worry. Her feet carry her the small distance separating them, body easily leaning into the arms that pull her close. She buries her face against Santana's neck, closing her eyes as she breathes in Santana's scent to calm her. It's different now, hints of tobacco and the perfumed spice of the elderly mixed within the familiar. Santana used to smell of coffee and fresh soap, water lilies and books. Home. Brittany hugs her tighter.

"I'm here, Britt," Santana coaxes her gently. "Whatever you need to say, I'm here."

"I know I shouldn't have come but I needed to see you," Brittany whispers into Santana's shoulder. She's trembling, just ever so faintly, but Santana can feel it as acutely as the hurried beats of her heart.

"Is everything all right?"

Brittany pulls away, shaking her head. "No, nothing is," she tells her. "She's so weak now San. I haven't seen her eyes in days…" Brittany is terrified.

Santana hugs her, knowing how severe Emily's sickness has transpired. "Just be there for her, okay? She needs you most now."

Brittany's arms encircle her once more. "I miss you," she declares thickly, burying her face back against Santana's neck. "I just want you _home_."

"Whatever time I have is yours. I'm sorry I can't give you more."

"I've not seen you in _a week_ ," Brittany grumbles, standing back upright as she readjusts Santana's blouse. "I know it's selfish of me. Mrs. Schuester's not seen her husband since he left for war and here I complain because I haven't seen you in days."

"You're just used to me always being near," Santana tells her softly. There is something she wishes to ask though, a conversation they've not had since she's been staying with the Nelson's. She tilts Brittany's chin up so their eyes may meet, pained to see Brittany looking at her with such misery. "Has he… has he spoken of me?"

Brittany lets out a snort. "No, and anytime I try to reason with him he gets all upset and _angry_ ," she says, aggrieved. "I don't think he'll come 'round like Burt…"

Santana slides off the desk and wraps Brittany in her arms. "Give him time. He still loves and wishes the best for you obviously or he'd not let you stay."

"I was always meant to stay," Brittany admits, voice far-off. She rests her head beside Santana's, closing her eyes as she tells her, "Last night he told me he never thought I'd ever marry."

Santana squeezes her. "That's what _any_ decent father says, Britt. They never think there's any good enough for their—"

Brittany rips away from the hold. " _No_ ," she growls out, gaze colored with resentment. "Because he didn't think there was anyone _foolish_ _enough_ to wish to spend their life with me."

The words sting. Santana's mouth falls open, disbelieving. "He… he said that?"

"He didn't have to," Brittany mutters.

"Brittany," Santana ventures cautiously. "What _did_ he then?"

Her approach fails, blue eyes narrowing at her with contempt. "Why are you defending him?"

"I'm not!" Santana exclaims, trying to find voice to her reason. "I just… you have to understand he's upset and—"

"You _are_!"

"He's angry now but he'll come to see—"

"And what if he doesn't?" Brittany interrupts, eyes blazing. Fearful. "What if he's just like _your father_?"

Santana takes Brittany's face in her palms, forcing her furious unease to calm. Blue eyes dart between her own as Brittany's hands find steady hold of her wrists. "He's _not_ , and it may feel like it now but you _know_ it," Santana tells her, hoping for Brittany to better understand her father's demand. "I'm sorry what he says pains you and I _hate_ that I cannot be there for you, but he still _loves_ you Brittany. He'd do _anything_ to keep you safe. You must understand that what he's doing now is what he thinks is best _for_ _you_."

"Then why can't he see that it's not?" Brittany chokes out. " _Why_?"

"Britt," Santana whispers her name, heart twisting as blue eyes fill with tears. "Please don't lose hope."

Brittany looks up at her, smiling weakly. "It's not the same without you."

"I'm not far," Santana reminds her, watching as Brittany prods at one of the bottles along the shelf on Dr. Nelson's wall. "You know you're always welcome to find me."

"You're not always here," Brittany says, settling the bottle back down as she lets out a lengthy exhale. "And I'm a horrible clarinet."

Santana squints at her for a moment, until the proper term comes to mind. "I think you mean clairvoyant," she offers gently, grinning.

Brittany sniffles and blushes, a small smile beginning to form over her lips. "I miss you teaching me things like that," she admits softly, still absentmindedly twisting one of the glass bottle tops between her fingers. With an audible sigh she gently places it back atop its vial, her gaze returning once more to Santana's. "I miss so much of you, San."

Her admission this time is far quieter, whispered as it is between shakily drawn breaths. But it's Brittany's eyes that have Santana stepping forward, the adrift look held within blue far more powerful than her words. Brittany swallows, turning her gaze down to her feet as Santana's hands find home upon her hips.

"I take baths by myself and it ain't the same without you there singing with me," Brittany confesses. Santana moves one of her hands to the juncture between Brittany's jaw and neck. Brittany shudders. "I don't feel as clean anymore."

"Brittany…" Santana whispers, urging her chin to tilt up once more. Blue eyes have begun to brim with tears.

"I don't smile in the mornings, or…or ev-ver," Brittany continues unsteadily. "I m-miss seeing you pick out which of my clothes you'll wear every morning b-because you look so good in _all of them_."

"You look better," Santana tells her softly, cupping Brittany's cheeks in her palms. An inkling of a grin creases at the right corner of Brittany's mouth, her eyes losing just a fraction of their forlorn intensity. Santana leans up to her toes, pressing a light kiss high on Brittany's cheek.

Brittany's eyes fall close as Santana returns to her heels. "I miss going to the loft with you, even those times my hands were too dirty from corralling the pigs and all we could do was kiss," she tells her, smiling now as the imprint of Santana's lips sink beneath her skin. She's not felt a calm like this is days. Her arms wrap behind Santana's lower back, tugging her closer until her forehead rests against Santana's own. "I miss you in our bed, I miss _you_. Please come home."

Santana holds Brittany's head in place, not wishing for either to pull back yet. "I want to so much Britt," her voice wavers just ever so slightly with the earnest assertion. For the smile she can see in Brittany's eyes brightens and she knows her next words will have it disappearing for some time. "But you know I _can't_."

"Emily's doing so poor without you," Brittany continues, beseeching, " _I need you with me_."

Of all Santana laments the possibility of not being by Brittany's side when Emily passes is the most grievous. Her heart folds in on itself, throat swelling at the thought. "I'm here," she whispers solemnly to Brittany. " _I'm right here_."

Brittany kisses her before the last word has even left Santana's lips.

Another knock on door has them parting before either wishes to. "I'm sorry, Britt. A second?"

Brittany nods, leaning herself back against the shelf of empty vials. With a look in apology Santana gathers their clothes from the floor and tosses them to the nearby chair. She hurries out into the foyer next to answer the door.

Brittany listens from the study, smiling slightly at hearing Santana needing to clear her throat before speaking with the patient. Not a few minutes later the door is closed with a polite thanks and Santana returns.

Brittany already has her coat back on.

Santana approaches her, not wanting her to leave just yet.

Before she can say a word Brittany leans down, giving her soft kiss. "I have to go," she explains as she pulls away, handing Santana back her sweater. "He'll be furious that I've been gone so long."

Santana gives a yank on Brittany's scarf, crashing their lips back together for a far more ardent goodbye. "I love you," she whispers as they part. "Know we're doing all we can for Emily."

"I do," Brittany answers by nuzzling her nose alongside Santana's. "And I am _trying_ so hard to change his mind."

"We'll be all right," Santana nods, assuring herself more than Brittany. They must.

Brittany turns to her before reaching for the door. "Can I see you tonight?"

Santana smiles, nodding. "Where?"

"The lake, will you come?"

"I… the last time he almost saw us and—"

"Please, San." Brittany steps closer, eyes imploring. She needs to see her; they've not been together in so long… " _Please_."

Santana cannot deny the request, not when she herself wishes for the same. "I'll be there at dusk," she whispers. "I _promise_ , Brittany."

Santana helps her to retie the scarf, making sure it's snug and warm around Brittany's neck. The walk back will be long and despite having journeyed through conditions worse than this with far less for cover, Santana still worries. She plucks one of Dr. Nelson's wool caps from the coat stand and tugs it gently down atop Brittany's head.

"That's not mine, San," Brittany reminds her with a grin, reaching to remove the cap. Santana halts her though, swatting Brittany's hands aside in good humor.

"Consider it a loan," Santana tells her, smiling softly.

"This isn't like the stamps, is it?" Brittany asks, skeptical. She touches a few of her fingers to the short brim, adjusting it more suitably on her head. "Dr. Nelson won't mind?"

Santana laughs and shakes her head. "He has five others just like it," she tells her, stepping up to brush a quick kiss against her cheek. Brittany visibly eases, smiling as Santana pulls her into a hug. "Return it to me tonight."

Satisfied with the solution Brittany steals another kiss before heading out the door.

Not a few minutes later Dr. Nelson enters, ruddy-cheeked from a trek back home through the snow and exacerbated by the flask of bourbon Santana has spotted peaking out from his coat pocket.

"Busy day up here for you?" he asks, words just a tad slurred as he makes his way toward his study. Santana follows, shrugging.

"Just Mr. Thomas stopped by requesting a visit for tomorrow. His wife is having labor pains he claims."

He gives her a solid clap on the shoulder in reply. He's in a good mood, steps lively and a strong odor of tobacco rolling from over his shoulders. Mrs. Nelson will not be pleased upon her return home to know he's spent his afternoon gambling with some of the men down at the tavern. "Was that just Brittany in here?" he asks, seeming to recall having seen the woman hurrying down his steps as he made his way across the road.

"Yes," she replies and tries not to sound so excited as she asks, "Do you need me to fetch her back?"

"Oh no, she's probably long gone by now, seemed in a hurry she did," Dr. Nelson chuckles as he pulls out his chair and lets himself fall back into the worn leather. "When you get a moment though, could you run this up to Hendrick?"

He slides across the desk a small glass bottle Santana's only seen a handful of times before. It is a simple cough suppressant, cheaply produced and quite in demand with a slew of the soldiers who used to visit the medical tents. Dr. Nelson nods down to the bottle, urging for her to retrieve it.

Santana can't refuse this request, no matter how ill at ease she feels having to see Hendrick once again. As a doctor matters of health come foremost. Hendrick has expressed wish to never see her again, but he cannot deny the aid she is soon to provide for Emily. She need only see to it the bottle is delivered and he's informed of the dose, nothing more need be said. She picks the bottle from the table and slips it into her pocket. "How many drops shall I tell him to administer to Emily?"

Dr. Nelson's eyes grow a tad sharper. "About five or so but they're not for Emily," he says, his once relaxed expression now tightly grim. Santana's heart stops as he tells her, "They're for him."

* * *

Santana is furious and the hour-long walk up to the Pierce farm has done little to temper her mood. The edges of her skirt are sodden with dirt and snow, the muscles in her legs sore from the speed of her angered strides. Dr. Nelson's last words are still echoing in her mind, infuriating her further; ' _That poor family, first Emily and now Hendrick? How Brittany will ever manage without them I don't know_. _She's such a simple girl_ , _bless his soul_.'

She's not even been able to properly place her focus upon any one part of the maddening words. Ever since she stormed from Dr. Nelson's home she's been overwhelmed with anxious thoughts and enraged beats of her heart. Hendrick _couldn't_ have fallen plague to tuberculosis. Not if he's been using masks as she _knows_ he has ever since she sent him that letter of instruction _months ago_.

He'd not allow the chance. Not knowing Brittany would be returning to him someday.

_And Brittany is certainly no simpleton_ , Santana snarls in thought. _All of this is absolutely ludicrous_.

The _medicine_ tucked into her pocket is nothing more than brandy spiked with a bit of African pepper. A concoction sold in apothecaries that had somehow grown popular among the northern soldiers and requested at most every bedside Santana has attended. Hot Drops are no more able to reduce a fever or cure one of sickness than other impractical mixtures of its kind. But those men _believed_ in its rumored power, simply because it was quite the successful cough suppressant. It burns and stings as you swallow it down, the pepper clearing your sinuses for at least a little while before you need another dose. A useless invention when one is afflicted with something more serious than an everyday cold.

The perfect precursor to a fantasy antidote.

And a _wonderful_ mask of sorts to keep the more obvious symptoms of disease suppressed.

Symptoms it is clear to Santana now that Hendrick is trying to keep from Brittany's notice.

Santana's fistsclench tightly in her coat pockets. Dr. Nelson's words swirl headlong in her mind. She amends his phrase now knowing the true meaning to his words, _Bless his soul for keeping her ignorant._

Brittany needs to be told.

And Santana cannot hold her tongue from the lashing she feels Hendrick deserves for such _audacity_.

She spots him out by the edge of the cornfields, hauling some of the dead stalks into an old wooden cart.

Not ceasing in the speed of her strides, Santana confronts him, startling him as she shoves the small bottle into his chest. The bales of corn fall from his grip as she hisses up at him, " _How long have you known_?"

He stumbles back into the side of the cart as he catches his balance and hides the bottle deep in his breast pocket. He's also not able to meet her eyes. "You weren't supposed to have found out."

She takes a step closer, burning into his bowed head a contemptuous glare. "I work for the _sole doctor_ in this town," she growls out. "Did you really think I would stay ignorant to this? Do you think _so little of me_?"

He looks up at her, surprised to have heard such insecurity in her once hardened tone. Santana also seems taken aback by the hitch in her voice, eyes growing ever so slightly wider. She narrows them once more as he stares down at her, unmoved. He cannot afford to show her an ounce of sympathy. "You're a smart woman, Santana," he says to her as he returns to loading the corn stalks into the cart. "I figured you'd have been long gone from this town by now."

"I've been unwanted my _whole life_ ," Santana tells him, forcing him to look at her once more when she places herself between him and the cart bed. "This isn't anything new to me."

Hendrick is still holding the bale hoisted high in his arms as she strains out, "Brittany's not… she's _not_ like you."

_Just like Burt_ , she thinks, heart still as pained hearing it now as the first time those words were spat to her. Stealing her resolve Santana meets his tired gaze. "You may choose to ignore it, but regardless of everything you've done to keep us apart I have not stopped loving her. Nor has she stopped loving _me_."

Hendrick slams the bale of corn to the ground. " _I'm aware_!" he exclaims in a hushed whisper, as if unwilling for his voice to grow in volume lest the truth spread on the wind.

"And she's certainly not aware of _that_ ," Santana snarls, pointing toward his breast pocket where the outline of the small bottle is plainly visible. Hendrick pushes it down deeper. "How can you keep something like this from her?"

"Because if she knew it would kill her!"

His exclamation this time carries loud and far.

He slumps against the cart wheel.

Santana's glare is still focused at the side of his face, unrelenting and unforgiving. He feels it earned.

He was floored by the sudden gentle quality of her question, retaliating in the only way he could in that instant. Barking out at her in his most belligerent of manner. _No better than a trapped dog_ , he laments. He regrets it now but not the words. His heart knows those to be more than true. Brittany would be inconsolable if she learned of his fate…

He'd promised to always look after her.

And for that task to fall to the woman before him?

_No_ , he shakes his head, banishing the stomach churning thought from his mind.

He can feel Santana move closer, her demeanor softened if the sound of her cautious step is any indication. "Mr. Pierce?" she ventures, quieted and… respectful.

He closes his eyes and shakes his head harder. He cannot reply to _her_.

Brittany always speaks of the goodness in Santana's heart, a topic he's been want to avoid knowing how he too once thought the same of her. She's not concerned for him, he knows, and nor does he blame her… _why would she be after what I've done?_ Her sole worry lies with what his sickness will mean for Brittany… something he himself has kept concealed from her for fear of leaving her here alone.

For that is the only known outcome of a tuberculosis diagnosis.

Something he knew well of when he began visiting Emily's bedside without use of a mask.

He looks back up to Santana. She just wishes to understand. _She deserves that of me_ , he thinks. If anything she deserves most to know the truth of his foolishness. Licking his dry lips he begins, "After I received word of the capture it devastated me, both of my daughters, _dying—_ " the word is choked from his throat. He bows his chin as he admits, sorrowful, "I… I ceased using a mask."

"You didn't think Brittany would make it home." It is a question as much as it is a statement.

Hendrick wipes at his eyes, meeting her even gaze as he asks, honestly, "Would you?"

Without hesitation, Santana answers, "Yes."

It breaks Hendrick's heart to admit, but with that reply he knows Brittany is right.

Santana's far more strength than even he, far more faith in his daughter.

Brittany needs him not…

"Will you tell her?" Santana asks him.

He shoots up from the cart, terrified by the prospect. "No, and you will _not_ speak a word of this to her!" he demands and motions her back toward the road. "You need to go."

Santana holds her footing, arms crossed defiantly across her chest. "The longer you lie to her, the worse it will be for everyone."

Hendrick's face grows redder. "You speak as if you know anything of what I am suffering! You know _nothing_!"

"You are a selfish man if you think keeping—"

He grabs her by the arms, halting any more of her words as she stares up at him, stunned and frustrated. His belly is a knot of discord, throat scratched with the residual ache of a fever to come and the words he is about to let slip from his tongue. _It is for the best_ , he reminds himself. For Brittany's sake. "I'm not the one who has ruined any hope she has for a future."

She's not wounded by the hostility. Not in the least. His hands tremble against her coat but he holds her still, even as she leans closer and she whispers to him, "No, you just abandoned it."

He can't push her away fast enough. "Please, g-go," he breathes out, somehow feeling unable to draw air into his starved lungs. His chest burns, eyes welling with tears as he shouts at her, "Damned woman, _leave!_ "

Santana steps away from him, backtracking so he's still within her sight.

" _GO!_ " he hollers out, advancing upon her to hurry her from his land. Santana turns, jogging back down toward the home. His steps don't follow her in the snow but nor does she spare a look over her shoulder toward him.

What she does hear is the creak of the front door as it's opened, the resounding slam as it's left to fall into its frame.

"Don't you dare chase after her, Brittany!"

Santana quickens her steps, eyes blurring with fresh tears as she runs down the path.

" _San!_ "

She doesn't stop though, not until she's halfway to town and her lungs burn from exhaustion. When she collapses to the side of the road, crying upon her knees and wishing she'd never been tasked with this errand.

* * *

When Santana doesn't show at the lake that evening, Brittany seeks her out. She'd waited for her of course, _hours_ just to be sure. Santana _promised_ her, after all.

_Perhaps she'd turned at the wrong tree?_ Brittany had thought to herself, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth as she sat on the blanket near the water's edge. Santana wasn't so good with direction yet after all. Just two weeks prior she'd gotten lost out in the fields for hours after Brittany left her a note to come meet her by the rows of dried-out sweet corn. Though in her defense Brittany only realized afterward that it wasn't so much a directional mistake as it was Santana's inability to distinguish the flint and sweet corn stalks.

She was a rather slow study when it came to the most rudimentary of vegetable farming.

_Or Pa had seen her…_

The thought was fleeting though. She knew he'd have found her as well in that event.

Since he never showed he must have remained ignorant, thinking his daughter at Mrs. Schuester's, collecting more books for Emily.

So Brittany waited. Ever patient.

She sat with her back to the water, legs crossed and hands idly twirling a dried cornstalk leaf she'd bent and twisted into the shape of a flower. A crude one at that. She felt it a poor gift. Surely something Santana would scoff at once presented. Regrettably, it was still too early yet for any real flowers to have bloomed. The flower of dried corn leaf would simply have to do.

She waited more, watching as the sun's rays sank against the trees Santana would emerge from at any moment.

The cornstalk flower was nothing save for a crumbled lump by the time the sky had given way to night. And any hope for Santana's arrival was gone along with the stars missing from the sky.

Brittany stood and folded the blanket neatly, leaving the flower to the dirt.

If Santana wouldn't show, she'd find her instead.

The moon is nothing more than a sliver of light in the cloudy sky as she makes her way back through the forest. By the time she glimpses sight of the old buildings along the edge of the town center, it's disappeared to the midnight fog.

A thick haze has begun to spread across the dirt road, its tendrils already obscuring large sections of the surrounding hillsides and now swirling about her heels. Come dawn light it will have engulfed the town. She wonders how she'll find her way home before then.

The concern doesn't weigh too heavily upon her mind though. She's come to seek out Santana foremost.

In the town center lamps have long been extinguished from homes and streets alike. Brittany quickens her pace anyway amidst the absolute blackness of night. Her legs carry her swiftly to Dr. Nelson's apartments nestled just above the grocer's storefront. With the aide of a well-placed horse rail she climbs up to the second floor landing. The elbows of her coat scuff against the rough thatches of siding atop the slanted roof as she hauls herself up. She brushes the bits of dirt off and shuffles along the wall in search of Santana's room.

It is within the second window that she finds her. A small bit of light spills out upon the window ledge from the lone candle glowing inside the tiny room. The curtains are drawn but sheer in nature, Brittany easily able to make out Santana's familiar form curled beneath a layer of sheets on the small bed. Her stomach sinks upon hearing a hushed whimper through the pane of glass.

Without pause to think, Brittany quietly slides up the window. She misjudges the distance to the floor though, stumbling inside whilst her gaze remains locked on Santana. The small thud of sound her boots make has Santana shooting up in bed and smothering a scream into her hands. Dark eyes are wide and tearstained, fright giving way to relief upon seeing just who has stolen into her room.

" _Brittany_ ," she hisses out, trying to urge her heartbeats to calm.

"You didn't come," Brittany says, clearly worried. She slips the borrowed wool hat from her head and sets it down on the end of the bed. Then she sits down as well, eyes seeking Santana's for answer. "And you've been crying…"

Santana wipes at her eyes and cheeks, drawing her legs up to her chest beneath the blanket. "I'm fine," she tells her, but laments the way her voice falters, the truth more than evident in her fragile tone. She bows her head, pointing toward the letter resting atop her end table.

_Quinn's letter?_ Brittany thinks, wondering what news their friend could have shared to leave Santana so utterly distraught. _Had Rachel made plans to visit?_

Placing a hand in comfort over Santana's nearest knee, Brittany unfolds the letter in her lap and begins to read.

_January 14_ _th_ _, 1863  
_ _Dear Mrs. Santana Pierce,_

_Firstly, I feel congratulations are in order, are they not? The last letter I received from Michael still named you Lopez. I hope you and Bret have found happiness now that you've made it from this awful war! Perhaps someday I may meet the woman my husband regarded so highly. I admit though, I was surprised to have received your letter, but ever so thankful for all the kind words it contained. We've not had much cause for cheer as of late._

_I don't know how to say what I must without ruining this letter with splotches of tears. A letter came a few weeks ago. I'm sure you know what news it brought. The children have taken his death hard and I'm afraid there are days where I myself feel like not leaving our bed. I'm sorry for over sharing my grief, it's just that of all his friends he spoke of you with most fondness. Please do keep in touch. Memories are all I've left to keep of him._

_Warmest regards,  
_ _Tina Chang_

Brittany stares down at the letter for a moment longer after she's finished, her eyes unable to leave _that_ word in Tina's neat script. _Death_. _His_ death… She folds it up before she too can smear the words with tears as Santana's already done.

"Oh San," Brittany whispers, placing the letter back atop the end table as she scoots up closer toward her and drapes an arm over Santana's shoulders. Brittany has barely settled with her back against the wall, one leg still hanging off the bed, when Santana leans into her embrace. Brittany kisses her temple gently. "I'm so sorry."

"He died because of _me_ ," Santana tells her, hugging her own legs closer as Brittany wraps her fully in both her arms. "H-he stayed to help _me_."

She can feel the shake of Brittany's head against her own. "No, this isn't your doing."

Brittany's calmly whispered words only seem to drive the knife further into Santana's heart. "I begged him not to go!" she exclaims in a hushed cry. Even distraught she's still mindful of the thin walls. Dr. Nelson's snores more than audible from the room adjacent where he and his wife soundly sleep. He can't wake to check upon her. Not to find Brittany uninvited in her room. She buries her face within the groove of Brittany's neck to muffle anymore cries, but more so out of need for the comfort the warm arms have sought to provide.

Any one of them could have perished that night. The reality of losing Michael has brought the memories far more frontal and vivid than Santana's ever recalled. She cannot shake the sheer look of panic in his dark eyes as he was swallowed into the fray…soon to meet his death. It was easy to imagine him alive, well and still entrenched within the medical tents of the Ohio companies. But dead, gone and at her hand?

She clutches tighter to Brittany's coat front, the remorse compelling a strong shudder through her body.

"Shh, San," Brittany soothes, forcing her own tears to abate as she holds the sobbing woman close. "You did nothing wrong."

"His children…" Santana chokes out, her grip frantic. They'd grow without him. Tina now has to live without her husband. _My doing_. _For Brittany…_ Was it so selfish of her to feel relief that they'd lived? That Brittany's arms are able to hold her now? She can't erase the last image of him from her mind. Can't shake that same fear from coursing through her now. Cruelly, piteously, those black panic-stricken eyes turn to blue. Santana curls deeper into Brittany's hold. " _Brittany_."

"I'm here," Brittany whispers to her ear, knowing what Santana seeks. She kisses her firm atop her head and wraps her arms tighter about Santana's trembling frame. " _I'm here_ ," she repeats, placing another solid kiss to Santana's forehead.

It's not enough.

Her tears won't subside.

Dead blue eyes refuse to leave her mind.

Santana wrenches herself away from Brittany, startling the woman wishing to comfort her. There's an unnerving look in brown eyes that elicits a shiver of reaction in Brittany with the way they have focused so intently upon her. Santana breathes hard; short uneven bursts that only give rise of gooseflesh along Brittany's arm. She wants to reach for her, pull her back in her arms and rid the haunting thoughts from Santana's mind. But she's awestruck beneath that dark gaze, unable to tear her eyes away. Her arm feels heavy as she lifts it, hand not her own as fingertips gently brush against the wet skin of Santana's cheek.

At the touch, brown eyes are stolen from their trance and soften. Santana takes a slow, ragged breath as her eyes shut and she leans her head into Brittany's palm.

"Just ask, San," Brittany whispers, offering her a faint smile. She tucks a portion of Santana's hair back over her ear. "You know I'll stay."

Brittany continues to wipe the tears from her face as Santana meets her gaze. Santana can't ask of her to spend a night away from Emily… But she needs her to stay, so badly needs her tonight. " _Please_?" it is a whimper of a request.

Brittany's smile widens ever so faintly and silently she kicks her boots off in answer.

Not a second later Santana's lips smash against her own, fraught and ardent. She moves a top Brittany, her knee bumping against the end table, knocking the stub of a candle from its stand. The flame extinguishes as it falls to the tabletop, liquid wax slow to congeal where it's spilled along the wood surface. Santana vaguely registers the flicker of pain but plants her knees firmly opposite Brittany's thighs all the same.

The tingle radiating in her legs has dulled whatever bruise could be forming.

Her fingernails scrape against Brittany's scalp as she pulls her head up to deepen the kiss. The feel of Brittany's tongue sliding against her own tugs deep in her belly, shivers erupting straight down her arms. Her throat tightens as Brittany repeats to her again 'I'm here,' and her chest aches with the want of feeling her near.

She simply needs her.

Brittany senses Santana's urgency and slows the kiss, calming Santana's feverish need. With steady hands she brings Santana to sit on top her thighs. Santana's knees are still bent and squeezed by Brittany's sides, but the strain in Brittany's neck has fled, flutters once more returning to her stomach as she runs her hands up Santana's back. The hands once thread so tightly in her short hair move to cup her face. With a few more lingering pecks they finally part, each breathless, Brittany's cheeks flushed beneath Santana's thumbs.

Their gazes meet in the darkness, the calm assurance of blue trying ever so hard to cast away the pained guilt still apparent in brown.

_It is not you're doing,_ Brittany thinks, hoping Santana can read the same in her eyes. "I love you," she whispers, twining her fingertips into the excess fabric along the back of Santana's nightdress.

The material is threadbare from years of use, she can easily feel the heat of Brittany's palms against her skin. Her words sink deeper than the touch though. Warmth once more flooding her stomach.

Santana leans forward, nudging her nose against Brittany's as she whispers back, " _I love you too_."

She's not heard her say those words in such a way in so long now.

Brittany eliminates what little space separates them, tilting her head the fraction of an inch to allow their lips to meet once more. Eyes fall closed at the light touch. Santana's arms quickly cross behind Brittany's neck. Bodies soon surge closer when Brittany presses harder into the kiss. She squirms beneath Santana's weight, pushing herself back from against the wall. Her skin is suddenly ablaze beneath her heavy layer of clothing.

She needs the coat removed.

Needs _everything_ removed.

Santana's hands are already at her coat front. It's undone without so much as breaking their kiss and shed to the floor with a toss. Her unbuttoned shirt and accompanying suspenders slip down her shoulders soon after. Santana begins to mark a path down Brittany's neck before she's even freed her arms. The trail of full lips sears, Brittany's stomach a mess of knots as she bites back a groan. Her vision tunnels when fingertips brush against the tip of her bare breast.

" _San_ ," she breathes out, arching her back further into the touch.

Spurred by the need in her voice, Santana recaptures Brittany's lips, her hand still kneading against the soft flesh of Brittany's breast. With a low moan Brittany hungrily seeks the feel of Santana's tongue as she begs entrance to her mouth. Her hands grab Santana by the hips, dragging her further against her lap. She slips her fingertips beneath the hem of Santana's nightgown, eagerly pushing the material up smooth thighs. Their lips part for the fraction of a moment it takes to draw the dress up and over Santana's head.

Brittany's mouth tastes the newly exposed throat instantly.

Santana melts at the hot touch of her tongue.

Her hips roll against Brittany's, wishing for one of the hands at her waist to dip between her thighs. Brittany's lips encircle her right nipple instead. Santana lets out a hiss as teeth rake across the sensitive skin, the tug in her belly growing deeper, heart thudding harder against her ribs. She purses her lips to keep the feeling from escaping her throat, nearly collapsing as fingers finally slip between her legs and meet the wet heat craving Brittany's touch.

She pants, trying to steady herself to no avail as blue eyes, heavy with longing lock upon her own.

Santana's nod is merely a twitch and jerk of her head, muscles taut and skin flushed with a sheen of sweat. She rocks against Brittany's hand, desperate for the friction needed to bring her release. Brittany tugs her down for a kiss, lips meeting as two fingers slip within Santana and curl forward. Brittany swallows the moan Santana lets out, rubbing her thumb slowly against elevated heat. Santana sets her own rhythm, pace quick. One of her hands slams down to Brittany's thigh, the other clutching at her shoulder. She pushes harder, snores next door lost to the dull thuds of the bedframe knocking against the wall.

Brittany fills her deeper, holding her upright, mouth burning against her neck.

Another flick of her thumb and Santana can feel the tug in her belly shoot up to her chest. Her eyes slam shut as her body shudders, thighs squeezing against Brittany's hand in wake of her release. Her muscles contract, still quivering with a sensation that dances across her skin as she collapses forward into Brittany's arms. Her breaths are erratic, chest heaving as the faint feel of lips brush against her cheek.

"I've really missed you," Brittany whispers, voice thick with want.

Santana's eyes dart down to Brittany's lips, her gaze tracing their swollen outline. Her legs still feel incapable of movement, eyes fluttering closed as Brittany's hand withdraws and slides up across the heated skin of her stomach. Santana lets out a moan at the wet touch; the sound quickly muted as Brittany recaptures her lips.

She pushes Brittany down to her back, supporting herself above her on bended elbows. Their legs tangle, the feel of Brittany's slacks an ever-present reminder of the need for their removal. With a pull of Brittany's bottom lip between her teeth Santana moves lower. She traces familiar curve of Brittany's neck, kissing down over the swell of her small breasts and the flat plane of her stomach. She sits up to unbuckle the belt around Brittany's waist and slides the slacks down long legs, leaving them to pool to the floor alongside her nightdress. Brittany's leg quivers, muscles twitching where Santana lays a kiss to warm skin of her lower thigh. Her eyes squeeze shut as she bites down hard on her bottom lip to keep a cry of longing from escaping her throat.

Her body writhes, head thrown back as Santana's arms lock around her thighs and warm breaths graze across the heat of her center. Santana's not tasted her in so long now. The craving in Brittany's eyes for the same burns in her belly, spurring her lips forward toward the heat. Santana holds tight against the surge of Brittany's hips against her mouth.

Brittany feels herself coming undone; her fingers digging harder into the mattress as she tries to keep herself steady.

Santana's tongue sears against her center and her back arches high up from the bed, groan silenced as she buries her face to the side against the pillow. She moans, thighs trembling beneath Santana's hold and slow strokes of her tongue. The pressure in her gut mounts, heart crashing hard against her ribs, all thought rendered mute in need of touch alone. A groan from Santana and the pulses of sound have Brittany biting into the pillow at her release. She shudders beneath Santana's hold, legs clenching tight around a dark head.

Santana kisses Brittany's inner thigh gently, coaxing her to relax once more. She smiles up at her, even though Brittany rests with eyes closed, still trying to catch her breath. Beautiful. With a long exhale Brittany sinks down into the bed, body and limbs consumed with a fading prickle of satisfaction.

Santana crawls back up beside her, kissing her, savoring the way Brittany is reignited and draws her closer. They don't speak as Santana pulls away, neither the voice to speak over the beats of their hearts. Brittany tugs her down until Santana settles half atop her; the weight bothers her not, comforting even as she pulls the blanket over them both.

She's not slept beside her in weeks. Both miss the feel of the others skin cooling against their own.

Tina's letter is still on the table, ruined beneath melted wax.

Santana dreams of him.

Brittany holds her until the sun rises, and then stays long after.

Her father is livid when she returns late that morning, shouting at her as she climbs the porch stairs.

Brittany doesn't hear his words though; she's stopped caring for them weeks ago.


	25. Stay With Me

_February 1st, 1863 **  
**_Dear Miss Pierce,

I am most sorry for the delay in response to your letter dated the 4th of last month. I am afraid things have been rather… frenetic here for me in Columbus. As you are well aware –and as I have now learned my father is a horrid old gossip apparently— I did make a dear friend in Blaine. I've just returned from a trip with him where I am also afraid that friendship was severed by things better left unsaid in our first correspondence.

Enough of my woes. My father has written of you a great deal, and the last letter I received from him informed me of the man he knew you as. Can I please just say how much I admire you and how sorry I am for the way my father reacted to your honesty. I very much feel he cares for you, he seemed distraught in his last letter as he wrote of the uncertain terms you all parted on. Did he apologize? He can be stubborn at times and rather cranky when faced with change but as you've said, he is a good man. I know he'll have done what's right.

I'm afraid I cannot answer your question though. I have not heard from him since that last letter in November. It worries me, what might have befallen him. You know more than anyone the perils of war and how poor his leg has become! What if he is lying in a field somewhere with no one to pick him to his feet? I am depressing myself just thinking of it! Please write if you hear word from him and I promise to do the same the moment I receive word as well. He is a strong man, I know he's alive. I refuse to think otherwise.

Your friend,  
Kurt Hummel

* * *

**February 7th, 1863**

Brittany has read it at least a dozen times now, but her gut stirs with unease all the same. Kurt's words are potent, stilling. They've sewn themselves so staunchly within her mind she can little more escape them than she can the sound of her heart beating. It's loud now, pounding against her ribs in a painful rhythm. Her hands have ceased to tremble but instead quiver faintly as she clutches to the letter. Her eyes scan over it again.

_I have not heard from him…_

… _no one to pick him to his feet._

Brittany shuts her eyes and refolds the letter hastily. The deep-seated creases easily give way to her practiced movements, jittery as they are. She swears this will be her last time doing so… but she's said so already five times this afternoon. As she lies to her back in the barn loft she tucks it into her coat pocket, letting her fingers linger over the crisp edges.

She's prayed for word of Burt's wellbeing every day and the mere thought of him— of him _unaccounted_ for— has now left her sickeningly dizzy with worry and wishing she'd never written to Kurt at all. To be ignorant is one thing. Her imagination is strongly favorable and every prayer thus placed in good faith has been worthwhile. But what of them now? What of the uncertainty now surrounding Burt's fate? Brittany can feel the hurried anxiety of Kurt's words practically bursting from the page. His worry brushes against her fingertips, the sensation a prickle of power along her arm that adds to the unbridled dismay already accumulated low in her gut.

The words are branded in her mind.

' _I know he's alive. I refuse to think otherwise.'_

It is hard to have the same faith as Kurt when all she can think of is the reason for the tears in Santana's eyes last night.

They've lost a dear friend in Michael.

His family has lost more.

All her prayers placed for his safety were thus devastatingly unanswered.

She thinks no one is even listening...

Her prayers have all gone to waste.

And with Emily's continued decline, Brittany's finds her once infallible hope now unraveling.

She lets her body sink further against the wood floor, emotions spent.

She wishes her father hadn't leant out Apple this morning. _Curses_ him for it even. After first reading Kurt's letter all she wanted was to seek out Santana's comfort. She felt unstable, needing the other woman's solid presence to ground her. As she still needs it now to pull her from this place of solitude.

She'd not be able make it on foot in her state. Her father hadn't even _questioned_ the tears in her eyes. He doesn't care... _when did he stop?_ When did she _?_

She collapsed in the loft, surrendered.

She's not moved in hours.

She needs someone, _anyone_ to share in her grief.

The grey of the sky beyond the loft door and shuffling feet of the cows below are poor substitute for fond brown eyes and warm arms.

Brittany needs her...

 _Wills_ her legs to pick her to her feet.

She wants nothing more than for her hope to be restored.

It is a feat so impossible now given one man's stubborn creed.

Brittany has nothing left within her to feel for her father's unyielding heart. She thinks he deserves every bit of pain he may feel from her disregard.

They've not spoken properly in weeks.

She's tried reasoning with him, appealing, bargaining, pleading, _begging_ … nothing has worked. His temper has shortened and hers alongside. There is a current in the air between them, mounting in bitterness as they pass and trailing in their wakes. Each has felt it prickling along their skin and both have grown resigned to its lingering presence.

Too much has been said and too little left unspoken to ease the tension.

She craves his apology nonetheless. Foremost, she craves his acceptance. He's not said it outright but she knows he thinks her wrong. The multitude of evenings they've spent in church are evidence enough. It was a routine her father had been _firm_ upon after he'd banned Santana from their home. They never missed a sermon or a chance for repent and prayer.

Brittany had nothing to repent, no matter the urgency Hendrick would whisper to her in plea.

She refused to submit to his misguided wishes. She was not wrong. Love was not something to _repent_.

So he would bend to his knee in the pew beside her and beg of God on her behalf.

Pray for his daughter to be returned...

She wanted to scream at him on those days. Shout that she had never left. She was _there_ , right beside him, no different in any way aside from the shortened hair atop her head.

She was still his Brittany.

Her eyes were nothing to be so shamed of looking upon. She wonders if he can even recall their shape.

If he even cares to...

He's not cared for much in weeks now.

She thinks he too has given up on prayers for they've not been to services in a fortnight.

He's grown strangely absent. Confusingly so. Instead of keeping constant eye upon her as he once did he's been distant. The times they are together end shortly, her presence obviously an intolerable _burden_ upon his soul. Or at least Brittany assumes so. He even wears more layers, as if protecting his very skin from the stain of her sin. Yet he still ensures a hot meal is waiting for her at breakfast and supper, that a warm bath awaits her on more trying of days. He cannot choose to be a father upon occasion and shun her at all others!

How she wishes she could just cease caring for him.

Her fingers trace over the contour of the locket resting against her chest beneath her shirt.

She hasn't been able to remove it, no matter the times she's wanted to rip it from her neck and throw it to his feet.

She can no longer comprehend his actions and frustrates over them even during the short times she's able to steal away to Santana.

And he _must_ hear her crying at night… how could he not? Emily always mentions to her how she's kept up wishing she could crawl into bed beside her sister and chase the tears and hurt away.

It won't ever go away though, even numbed as she's forced herself to be now.

Brittany hasn't seen his eyes; not a smile, not a hint of _her father_ and she can't help but feel she's losing him and everyone and there's not a _thing_ she can do more to stop it.

So she's already made up her mind as to what she must do.

Once Emily— Brittany swallows thickly— once she's _gone_ , Brittany will leave as well.

It will hurt to say goodbye to them all; Apple and Lord Tubbington especially. But without her _family_ the farm is no home.

Now if only she'd the will to stand to her feet and tell Santana.

...and heart to displace Tubbington from the nest he's made for himself between her calves.

A horse gives out a whiny nearby, puzzling Brittany as it sounds nothing at all like Apple. She sits up at the sound, a might too fast for Tubbington who lets out a meek cry and scatters off toward the far hay bales in search of a better bed for his nap. Craning her neck to see beyond the open loft door Brittany catches glimpse of an unfamiliar horse and ever more unfamiliar black carriage. Her focus is drawn to the mare, specifically the poor animal's clearly wearied state. Outrage bubbles within her at the neglect of the driver. _They must not have stopped since nightfall!_ _And pulling such a weight by herself!_

Brittany stews as she crawls to the door ledge for a better look.

The carriage is small yet polished, the dark wood and brass finishing's shining in the streams of sunlight able to pierce down through the heavy layer of grey clouds. For all its splendor the wheels are chipped in places, leather of the reins well-worn with age.

It reeks of waning affluence beneath its facade of grandeur.

The driver steps down and stretches himself skyward with a silent groan. He startles as the door to the carriage is impatiently flung open. A woman emerges, swatting aside the assistance of her driver as she steps down to the ground and scowls as her heel is entrenched in day's old snow. Even as she shakes her foot free and berates the skittish man trying to provide her aide Brittany can't help but think this woman is by far the most poised and _ridiculous_ lady she's ever seen. She's attired in the very finest of dress, her dark hair elegantly coifed high on her head. All for a visit to a poor farm far from whichever city it's clear she's traveled from. Even at a distance Brittany can see the sneer etched across the woman's full lips as she absorbs the sight of the modest home before her.

A cow lets out a loud moo below and Brittany ducks down beneath the loft doorway as the woman's attention turns toward the barn. Through the slates of wood she can see a slight fear in the way the woman twitches and waves to the driver to remain close by.

Brittany presses her ear close as they begin speaking. Their voices are hushed in tone but the foreign language is familiar… those lips so similar in shape to the one's she's memorized…

Brittany forgets to breathe.

Peeking up from the edge of the doorway she watches, stunned, as Santana's mother ascends her porch steps.

Within moments Mrs. Lopez is greeted by her father. They disappear inside the home not long after, the driver left to scuffing his boots in the snow as he returns back to the carriage.

Heart pounding, Brittany quickly scrambles up to her feet. Blood rushes to fill her legs, muscles twitching beneath. The sensation is akin to needles piercing through her veins. She hurries unsteadily over toward the ladder and descends as a thousand thoughts swarm her mind.

_Why has she come?_

_Has she brought Emily's medicine?_

_What does she want to say to Santana?_

_Has she come to say anything at all?_

_Is she here to help?_

_Is she here to take her...?_

Brittany leaps down the last few steps, her arm accidentally smacking against one of the rungs as she catches herself. The healed sword wound protests at the strain, old nerves stinging deep beneath the scarred skin. Brittany sucks in a breath as she hugs the arm to her chest, knowing Santana had warned her to keep it well away from further harm. It continues to throb but she pushes aside the ache as she takes off through the barn doors and into the snowy yard.

As she passes the dumbfounded driver she shouts a hurried, "There's feed and water for her in the barn!"

Ignoring his witless response of, "He'll much appreciate that, thank you ma'am!"

She springs up onto the porch in one bound, skidding to a stop just outside the closed door. Composing herself, though unable to keep her hands from shaking, she lets herself inside.

The conversation within halts at her entrance. Her father is unsurprised and yet alarmed at her presence, his gaze instantly flittering toward the kitchen in hopes of finding an excuse for her dismissal. He's still yet to even remove that stupid scarf which she thinks now a permanent fixture upon his face. She pays him no mind after that initial second, her eyes riveted to the woman calmly standing in their home.

Gloved hands are clasped politely at her front, expression piqued with mild interest at the intrusion. She looks not at all affected by the death of her husband or daughter's incarceration. Her air that of a woman inconvenienced by little more than a days worth of travel in luxury she's found immensely —selfishly, Brittany thinks— inadequate.

Santana's mother is every bit the callous woman Brittany was told of.

And there is so _very_ much Brittany wishes to say to her.

Mrs. Lopez speaks up before she or her father can, smiling over at Brittany in rehearsed cordiality, "You must be Bridget."

Brittany's hands cease trembling when her fingers find home in the flesh of her palms. " _Brittany_ ," she corrects through a clenched jaw.

There's a brief flash of recollection in dark eyes as Mrs. Lopez steps toward her, strained smile widening. "My apologies, Brittany." The warmth of her tone does little to hide the insincerity of her words or assuage the way her gaze lingers upon Brittany's abnormally shortened hair. She purses her lips as she motions back to Hendrick, continuing, "Your father and I were just discussing—"

"Why have you come?" Brittany asks, bypassing any pleasantries for there could only be one purpose for the woman to have traveled so far.

She intends not to journey home alone.

A fact that twists into Brittany's heart at Mrs. Lopez's reply. "I've come to collect my daughter. And see here?" She retrieves a small vial of amber liquid from within her purse, holding it up for both Hendrick and Brittany to see. Hendrick eyes immediately cloud with grateful relief. Brittany's narrow in unbridled suspicion. "In good faith I've even brought the medication she requested in her letter. Is she here by chance?"

"In town at the moment," Hendrick supplies quickly, graciously accepting the medication Mrs. Lopez carefully hands to him. "And thank you so much for this ma'am, you've no idea how hard it's been to come by."

"I've an inkling," Mrs. Lopez replies, eyes scanning the sparsely furnished room. "Is there anyone who can call upon Santana?"

Brittany bristles. "She's not going to leave with you," she tells her just as Hendrick also speaks up.

"I'll fetch her for you Mrs. Lopez. I know we've not much but please make yourself at home," he says, helping Mrs. Lopez to his fireside chair as he throws a quick silencing look in his daughter's direction.

Mrs. Lopez has heard them both, but declines responding to the acidic claims of the woman that's clearly been spending time in her daughters company. It seemed even the war could do little to keep her influence from spreading to others. She gives Hendrick a polite smile in thanks, "how long should I expect you gone?"

"No more 'an hour or so," he tells her. "I'm sure she'll be happy to see you."

Mrs. Lopez refrains from letting out the chuckle she feels warranted by his optimism. _He mustn't be acquainted with Santana_ , she thinks, if he expects anything aside a vehement protest at news of her arrival. Thus to expedite the process she suggests, "Feel free to make use of my carriage."

"Your horse is in need of _rest_ ," Brittany interjects, fuming internally. She cannot withstand another second in this woman's presence. "I'll fetch Santana."

Hendrick's eyes widen at the suggestion and he grabs Brittany by the arm before she can fully turn toward the door. His daughter winces, letting out a hiss of pain as the ache in her arm is reawakened by his grip.

He lets go immediately, brow furrowing with apologetic concern. When had she hurt herself? Why hadn't she come to him? She keeps her gaze from his, pulling her arm back to her chest and away from his touch. He can't deny the hurt rendered in his heart by her guard.

"Give us a moment," he says to Mrs. Lopez before leading Brittany into the kitchen and out of earshot of their guest.

His apologies tumble forth almost immediately. "I'm sorry Britt, I'd no idea it has been bothering you again, are you—"

"How could you know?" Brittany snarls out, swift to put a great deal of distance between them. "You don't ever talk to me anymore."

He is stilled more by the anguish in her voice than the spite of her words. "I'm sorry sunshine," he whispers, but says no more on the matter. He can't tell her why yet, not when she's so utterly vexed with him. "Please trust me to bring Santana back."

"Why? You wish her gone just as much."

"I wish only to reunite her with her mother," he explains quietly.

Brittany glares up at him. "Santana _hates_ her mother. That woman is _awful_."

He agrees, absolutely, but regardless, "She's come all this way to see her, and whether Santana agrees to come or not Mrs. Lopez is our guest for the afternoon. We must treat her as such."

"I'm afraid I've forgotten my _manners_ then," Brittany pointedly tells him. "So let me bring Santana back."

A flash of panic overwhelms him. "No!" He bursts out, shaking his head and moving to block the back door. A prickle of sweat dots his receding hairline and he raises a hand to brush the perspiration aside. "I… I should be the one to get her."

"So you can _upset_ her some more?"

"To apologize."

Brittany squints up at him, searching his eyes for truth to the words. "You're lying to me again."

He chooses not to acknowledge her statement, busying himself with gathering a clean cup for Mrs. Lopez from their cupboard. "I'll return with Santana soon," he promises, setting their best cup on the table beside Brittany. Her heart sinks upon seeing it is the one she reserves for Emily's use. "Offer Mrs. Lopez some tea, perhaps that will keep her from saying anything more to upset you."

He begins to head back into the front room to retrieve his coat and cap, but Brittany's voice stops him just in the doorway. "No matter what you say to her, I know she won't leave me."

He knows. He knows oh too well.

* * *

Brittany fixes up a small pot of tea as her father instructed, though purposely ensures the taste is anything but satisfactory by steeping it for longer than necessary. It also prolongs her inevitable return back into the front room. She doesn't think she can face Santana's mother again without her true thoughts on the woman's character bubbling forth. Bracing herself and taking sharp bite of her bottom lip Brittany pushes her way through the door.

The woman has not moved from the chair, ankles now crossed delicately beneath the large skirt of her dress. She brushes down a portion of the overcoat draped over her lap as Brittany stiffly enters with the tea.

Mrs. Lopez gives Brittany thanks as she sets the cup and kettle down on the table beside her father's chair.

Brittany wills herself not to bump it off, no matter how she wishes to see the steaming liquid ruin that dress and wipe the poorly concealed smugness from Mrs. Lopez face. It's clear she holds the Pierce family in little esteem, none even if Brittany truly lets her anger swell hotter.

They fall into thorny silence shortly thereafter, stealing glances at the other when gazes are averted elsewhere.

Mrs. Lopez never touches the cup. She's quite sure the blonde wishes her poisoned.

A faint cough from the back room has Brittany on alert and Mrs. Lopez finally ready to break the hush between them. There was, after all, a reason her daughter had written to her. "How is your sister faring?"

"She's sick," is Brittany's blunt response. _As if she cares!_ She can't resist as she says once more, "Santana won't go with you."

Mrs. Lopez's lips curl into that infuriating smile again. "You sound so sure," she says, tone amused. She stands from the chair and motions with a flutter of her fingers at the room around them. "How could she ever wish to stay… _here_?"

"She's a _family_ here," Brittany tells her, advancing at the insult. The other woman does not shrink from her towering presence, calmly taking in Brittany's resentment as she meets the fiery blue eyes boring down into her own. "Something more than she has if she were to return with you."

Mrs. Lopez lets out a tired sigh. "I feel she'll tell me the same. Santi's never been one to hold her opinion."

Brittany seethes at the ease with which the woman utters the nickname. _She's not earned the right to!_ "She shouldn't ever have to," Brittany says evenly, voice low. "And she ain't going with you."

Mrs. Lopez expression darkens, eyes sharpening at Brittany's continued impertinence. "It's not just the one vial I've brought," she informs her, glad for the slight flicker of humility in Brittany's eyes. She motions down to her purse in the chair. "There's much more to help your sister, perhaps enough even to see her well again."

Brittany picks up the purse, astonished to find at least four or five other similarly sized bottles containing the assortment of medication Emily's long since exhausted supplies of. Mrs. Lopez closes her hands around Brittany's own, clamping the purse shut and secure in Brittany's grasp. Their eyes meet, brown curiously interested as the black within blue deepens, indebted, vulnerable.

Brittany cannot find the strength to speak past the knot now formed in her throat. Not an hour prior she'd given up the very hope now presented to her.

"You care for Emily immensely," Mrs. Lopez whispers, both unaccustomed and hesitant of Brittany's open display of emotion. It was a sight seldom witnessed in Cincinnati and rarely has she ever seen the same look in her own daughter's eyes. Only twice to be exact. Once upon Santana's fourth birthday when she'd gifted her a doll and received the last true hug her daughter ever bestowed her... and the other the night she stood outside her daughter's door, unable to cross the threshold lest she defy her husbands wishes, watching as Santana shed silent tears and begged of her mothers comfort with scared eyes.

She thinks Emily quite lucky to have someone hold her in such regard.

It is also why a twinge of regret similar in nature to the one that struck her as she retreated from Santana's door sinks within her now as she pulls the purse away from Brittany's hands. "Either Santana comes with me, or my _gifts_ do," she manages to keep her voice clipped, poise intact as she maintains eye contact with the now flabbergasted woman. "I am not one for extortion, but as my husband is dead I cannot take chances any longer. You can have your medicine if I can take my daughter home."

"This _is_ her home now," Brittany stresses, sniffling as she regains her stony countenance. "And could you really be so cruel to take this from my sister? She's _dying_."

Mrs. Lopez stares at her a moment, unblinking. Brittany can make no sense of the look held within dark eyes and is surprised when Santana's mother empties her purse carefully to the side table. She steps aside, motioning down toward the settling bottles. "Keep the medicine," she tells Brittany. "I'm not without compassion."

Brittany's not quite willing to trust her. "Santana says otherwise."

"Do you believe everything she tells you? She's a _very_ good liar, Miss Brittany."

Brittany's gaze narrows dangerously. " _She never lies to me_."

Mrs. Lopez grins knowingly. "Trust me, it is her greatest talent."

"How can you be so… so…" Brittany's ears burn red as she struggles to find the most fitting of term.

"Honest?" Mrs. Lopez offers, folding her hands back in front of her dress. "I know my daughter. And as much as she tries to deny it she is all her father."

"She's _nothing_ like him!" Brittany exclaims, cheeks now flushed with the heat of her ire. "How could you ever let him hurt her?"

"It is not a woman's place to interfere with—"

"You're her _mother_!" Brittany explodes, unable to contain her thoughts any longer. Mrs. Lopez stumbles back toward the hearth at the impassioned outburst. "You should only _ever_ want to keep her safe. No matter _anything!_ "

The ring of a bell echoes into the room, extinguishing the fight in Brittany's eyes. Her irritation remains though, strong as ever as she steps impossibly close to Mrs. Lopez. The elder woman doesn't know which brings an uncomfortable heat beneath the collar of her dress, the fire at her back or the one burned into her from the darkest of blue eyes. She's pinned beneath them, silenced.

Brittany leans nearer and tells her with slow deliberation, "You don't deserve her love."

 _I know_ , Mrs. Lopez thinks. She need not be reminded.

A rush of air is exhaled through her mouth as Brittany steps back and blue eyes dart down to the now chilled cup of tea. "And you're not welcome to the tea, _so don't touch it._ "

Brittany brushes past her to check upon Emily, leaving Mrs. Lopez to fall back into the chair, dumbfounded, unable to process how it is she was just bested for the first time in her life by someone of such inferior birth.

And how right Brittany is.

* * *

He walks beside her, silent, brooding. The very picture of a father torn in empathies and despondent for the love it's cost. He's not said a word since she opened the door to him. Her heart had clenched as her eyes locked upon his tired face. A flash of fear coiled in her gut for Emily. Before she could even utter a single word in question he let out a sigh, one just as heavy as the darkened contours beneath his eyes.

"Emily is with us still," he said from beneath the scarf wrapped snuggly around his neck and lower face. She could glimpse a hint of the regard he'd once shown her as their eyes met. It was hard for him to remain indifferent, especially when given how evident her concern was for his youngest daughter. He snapped his gaze to the floor. There was reason for this presence. "Your mother's arrived and wishes to see you."

She followed him without question but then he'd also not given her a choice. Once the words had passed his lips he turned and began the long walk back toward his family's farm. Santana quickly grabbed her coat, and scarf for good measure, before hastily catching up to his slowed strides.

He'd been waiting for her, but neither says word of it.

Neither says anything for a good quarter of an hour.

The snow is slush beneath their steps, ice finally thawing in wait of a spring still so far off.

Santana hopes it warms soon. Her mother's _visit_ is yet another cold smear upon her life. She'd never expected her to make the trip so far North from Cincinnati. Certainly not with the winter they've been having. But more yet, certainly not with the feelings long lost between them. Her mother has never written to her, not _once_ during the time they've been apart _._ And yet Mrs. Lopez _more_ than made the time to write to her father. He received a letter almost weekly, a gesture that once spurred such utter jealously within her.

Was she so easily forgotten?

So uncared for?

The memories, bitter as she is recalling them now, have left a welt upon her heart nonetheless. There is no sentiment that needs be paid to her mother. Simply a string of choice words she wishes to cut her down with instead.

 _If Brittany hasn't first,_ Santana thinks, grinning upon remembering how unforgiving Brittany is when subject of her absent parents arises.

Santana is rather looking forward to greeting her mother, if only to show her right back into her carriage with desires voiced of never seeing her again.

Her mother is hardly what worries her as they make their way nearer to the farm.

Her more pressing concern lies with the man at her side and the almost _guilty_ way he's been avoiding her gaze.

It's clear he's not told Brittany. A fact that buzzes within Santana so hotly she's ceased feeling the nip of the chilled air upon her cheeks.

Hendrick is aware. Acutely so of the firestorm brewing so near beside him. He also thinks it will snow again soon, a far safer thought than manifesting any type of rebuttal. He scuffs his boot along a pack of ice on the road, scattering the bits to make for easier passage of carriage and carts. It offers a distraction, if only for a moment from the conversation he knows the cross woman to his side is waiting to unleash.

He barely finishes spreading the patch of snow when her voice carries over the empty road. "You've not told her yet, _have you_?"

It's both accusatory and worried. Such a fitting combination of disappointment and scorn. He feels it more than warranted. "You already know my answer, why bother asking?" he offers instead, tone hardened as he begins walking once more.

She stops him with a push of her hand against his shoulder. "Because you're capable of _infecting_ her," she hisses out, eyes blazing fiercely up into his own. "And she's not a clue to protect herself."

He bristles at the attack. "You think I'd do that to her? I've been _careful_."

"Careful how?" she presses, flicking at the ends of his scarf with a sneer. "Is this all? Tying a scarf about your face?"

He keeps his breath dutifully held as his eyes keep locked upon hers and he lowers a portion of the scarf from over his face. She's surprised to find one of the masks covering his nose and mouth. He readjusts the scarf back into place. "I'm not stupid. I know the danger I pose to her."

The answer seems not enough to appease Santana though. "Where have you been sleeping?" she inquires, tetchy.

He begins walking again, replying as he brushes past her, "The front room."

"And meals?" Santana ventures on, striding up beside him. "Have you been washing everything—"

"She is safe from this sickness!" Hendrick exclaims, all at once frustrated and heartened by her barrage of necessitated concern. He breathes a little heavier, chest pained by the shout and the subsequent sting the look in her eyes renders onto his heart. She cares so much for his daughters… for Brittany. He closes his eyes, dragging in a pained breath as he repeats, "She is safe… at the cost of what little love she may still hold for me."

Santana holds no sympathy for those words, but her tone is softer as she tells him, "That is your own doing, you know it. Keeping this from her will only _hurt her more_."

Hendrick bites back a snort, throat rumbling a deep noise of dissent. "I'm sure she told you all of it _last night,_ " he accuses. "She was with you, wasn't she?"

Santana stiffens. "I don't think you really wish to hear my answer."

"Say it."

A stressed pause settles between them. Santana bites at her cheek and chances a glance up at him. There is no disgust in his gaze, no animosity... just a truth being sought. An almost gentle plead for her to affirm his suspicions. She swallows thickly, nodding. "Yes, she was with me."

He lets out a long groan and resumes walking.

She refuses to admit to herself that it feels like being forced away all over again.

"Why torment yourself?" Santana asks him, loathing how her voice quivers. He stops walking, back still turned to her as she continues, "You hate me, what could knowing—"

"I don't hate you, Santana," he says softly, his words almost lost if not for the way she ceased speaking at first hint of his voice. Her heart beats just a bit faster. There's a familiar crease in the corner of his eyes as he turns to her, a sad smile buried beneath the scarf she cannot see. "I know she'll run off with you the moment Emily passes."

"Is that what you think I want? For her to _leave_ you?" Tears. She's crying. _Not now_ , she curses herself, wiping them away with a subtle brush of her hair back over her shoulders. He's noticed though. _Of course he has_ , she thinks as he approaches slowly. How could _he_ not? The man who once welcomed her to his home with such warm arms and lifted her clear from her feet as he did. Who whispered to her so adamantly that she was now home… that she was as much a part of his family as his girls. Santana holds his gaze, unwavering as she reminds him, "Despite how you feel for me I still think of you as my family."

He holds that gaze for a moment, hurting for her and the man who promised her that hope once. Feeling the prickle of similar tears in his own eyes he turns his gaze once more to the melting snow. "Your mother wants you to return home with her."

Santana forces out a laugh. "You're mad if you think I'd ever leave with her."

"She's something for you," he informs her. A part of him wishes for a glimmer of hope to spring to her eyes. A renewed faith in the awful mother Brittany's only ever told him of in passing comments. Comments she's long ceased that night he lost the faith of his own daughter.

But Santana is shaking her head at him, her expression unapologetic.

"She's _nothing_ for me Mr. Pierce," she tells him, her voice full of ache but conviction too. "And whatever wrongs she's trying to smooth over now I cannot forgive. She's had her chance. In fact I can no more call her my mother than I can that cow over there," she motions off to the nearby field, expression thoughtful for a beat. "Though, to be honest, comparing them is insulting to the cow."

He agrees but says anyway, "Of what I gathered she seems to care for you a great deal."

"Then I'm positive you've not met my mother." She smiles at him in the same manner Brittany does when she catches him telling a horrible fib.

He almost smiles back. But just almost.

* * *

Hendrick opens the door for her and Santana hesitates just outside the entrance. Her mother stands somewhere within the home, a woman who has neglected to even write her a _word_ since her departure for war. She's not quite ready to face her; her throat tightens at the prospect of speaking to her. _Why had she come all this way? Why show care for her now?_

Peering inside the home Santana's attention is immediately drawn to Brittany. She's leaning against the mantle with arms crossed tightly over her chest, expression hardened, contempt evident in her gaze and the sharp line of her pursed lips. She's focused upon the other occupant of the room, the one Santana is loath and yet all at once eager to face. After a moment Brittany breaks her stare and blue eyes yield in temper as they lock upon Santana's.

That look is all Santana needs to step forward.

Brittany moves to push off from the fireplace but Mrs. Lopez is far nearer to the door.

Santana steps over the threshold just as a blur of deep emerald fabric surges toward her, followed by the exasperated groan of her mother's waning patience. The unmistakable red of her mothers favored lipstick flickers across her gaze and Santana grows rigid as a small hand envelopes her upper arm.

"Ah, Santana, _thank god_. Let's go," Mrs. Lopez rushes out as she gives a tug for Santana to follow her back out the door.

Digging the heels of her boots into the floor, Santana yanks her arm free from her mothers grip. The months apart have done little to soften the woman's heart, Santana thinks, if judging by the lack of greeting she's just received. Her mother tries reaching for her again and Santana swiftly steps aside.

"Santana, _ahora_ ," her mother demands, motioning for her to come forward.

With distance between them Santana can finally see her mother's face. There are more lines etched into the corner of her eyes and mouth than when they last saw one another, more grey sprinkled in the roots of her hair... or had they always been there? She never cared enough to notice, not things of such trivial nature. Those were the petty concerns of her mother. And they are clearly evident now as Mrs. Lopez takes in sight of her daughter.

"Dios mio..." Santana can hear her breathe out, appalled as her gaze travels down Santana's figure. Dark eyes grow wide as they dart across the worn coat with its missing buttons, narrowing at the splotchy hem of a once cream skirt, and finally disbelieving as they land upon sullied old boots.

Hendrick is no stranger to the tension now born in the air of his home and he feels it not in his place to bear witness to the tetchy reunion. He'd promised to give Mrs. Lopez a moment with her daughter but nevertheless he can't help it as Santana's words resurface within his mind. _She's nothing for me Mr. Pierce_. He hadn't believed her then but is seeing the truth of her words now. He can't ever imagine looking at his girls the way Mrs. Lopez now does her daughter… with such detached inspection. Has she no sympathy to the plight her daughter has faced to even be standing before her today? No care for the way Santana must turn her head toward the side in order for her working ear to even hear those disproving clicks of her tongue? Any regard at all for the sole child she bore to this world?

 _Not my place_ , he forces himself to think as he closes the door quietly at his back. It isn't in his manner to meddle, no matter the inkling of want within him to speak on Santana's behalf. He pushes the thoughts aside, instead nodding for Brittany to join him in the kitchen.

She remains staunchly in place and glares at him in obvious hostility.

She will not be leaving this room, no matter his insistence.

She harbors far too much love for Santana to do so.

He relents and breaks their stare to shakily readjust the scarf over his lower face. "I see the tea is low," he says, forcing out a chuckle as he moves to collect the old kettle. It's not been drained an inch but he retrieves it nonetheless.

"I didn't let her have any," Brittany tells him, her burning glare now turned upon Mrs. Lopez. "We only serve tea to those who are _welcome._ "

Hendrick's face flushes a deep red beneath his scarf. Concurrently proud, irritated and embarrassed he throws a halfhearted berating look over his shoulder back to her.

Brittany ignores him.

Hendrick remains, teakettle held awkwardly in hand, wishing to exit the room and simultaneously finding himself unable to.

"I'm not leaving with you," Santana finally finds the voice to speak, though curses herself for sounding so bruised by her mothers scrutiny. Mrs. Lopez always possessed the uncanny ability to unhinge her and it's especially easy now with so much time lost between them. Santana feels out of practice but more yet she despises, utterly _hates_ the twinge of sympathy kindled within her knowing her mother has traveled for days to see her. _She does not care_ , she reminds herself. _She never has._

"Don't be _ridiculous,_ Santana," her mother scoffs, waving the refusal off as easily she would an errant leaf atop her shoulder. "Do you truly think I came all this way if I didn't think I was going to be bringing you back?"

Mirroring Brittany, Santana too finds her arms unconsciously folding over her chest. "You've had crazier notions," she tells her with a roll of her eyes. Inside her stomach is tying itself into thick knots. "And honestly? I thought, perhaps, _maybe,_ out of the speck of goodness that exists in your heart, that you'd be willing to help someone in need without expecting anything but thanks in return."

Mrs. Lopez bristles at the accusation of being anything less than an ideal mother. But more so at Santana's continued resistance to her presence... her daughters obvious and now strengthened abhorrence for her being. She never meant for their relationship to deteriorate so. She never thought she'd be given this chance to see her again…

"I thought you dead along with your father!" she exclaims, finally breaking decorum to let her frightened sentiments be known. She bridges the space separating them, allowing no more than a foot between them.

A wave of her mother's floral perfume slams against Santana's senses. It is such a jarring scent when accompanied by such a terrified exclamation. Her heart beats faster nonetheless, especially as she is taken aback by the open expression crossing her mother's usually stoic face. There is a look held within brown eyes she's not seen since she was a young girl... a tenderness absent for so long Santana grows unsteady on her feet beneath its influence.

Her arms tighten across her chest instinctively but it does little to protect the stirrings taking place deep within her gut. She's not felt defenseless like this with anyone aside from Brittany…

Santana feels herself shattering inside as her mother lays a warm hand to her arm. "And imagine the _joy_ I felt when I received your letter. That you were safe and well and _alive,"_ the word is choked out with such gratitude Santana stumbles back from her mothers touch. Brittany is there, as always, offering a grounding hand low to Santana's back. It centers her thoughts, fills her with a calm she was so close to losing.

Her mother is crying, beseeching of her in Spanish, "Santi, _please, come home with me_."

Santana shakes her head as Brittany moves closer, the warmth at her back spreading deep beneath her skin. "No puedo," she whispers.

"Podemos empezar nuevamente!" Mrs. Lopez promises, tone fragile. "You know we can, Santana. _Please_."

Again Santana shakes her head, biting back tears as she steps back until her feet fall into place beside Brittany's and the hand at her back slides securely to her hip. She doesn't have to say the words, the way she stands by Brittany says it all. _This is my home mami._

The teakettle drops from Hendrick's hands, face paling at the blatant affection on display before Mrs. Lopez.

She sees nothing more than an appalling kinship. One needing immediate severance. Santana must return home. "I've paid him for the trouble of keeping you and now you can—"

"You _wh-what_?" Santana sputters, enraged. "You _paid_ him?"

Hendrick pales further as Santana's eyes turn upon him.

"And you _accepted_ it?"

He nods, shamed as he withdraws from his pocket a few larger bills. "For Emily…"

" _I cannot believe you_ ," Brittany hisses to him.

Mrs. Lopez lets out an exasperate groan. "I cannot believe I am still _standing_ here. Santana, let's go, I am growing tired of—"

" _No_!" Santana counters before anymore can be said. "I am grateful for the medicine you've brought but I am not going back with you!"

"Santana, please, consider your mothers appeal," Hendrick offers but is shaken when Santana looks upon him with such betrayed hurt.

" _There is no appeal,"_ she snarls out, moving from Brittany's side to advance on him. " _You_ just wish to be rid of me and _she,"_ at that she points with disdain back to her mother _._ "She just wishes to marry me off to the man with the deepest pockets!"

"I don't wish to see you unhappily wed, Santi," Mrs. Lopez admits, hoping to seek reason with her clearly upset daughter. Brittany lets out a scowl of a sound though when Mrs. Lopez tries to draw nearer to Santana. Keeping her distance from both girls she tries meeting Santana's gaze instead but dark hair has begun to spill from its loose bun, obscuring most of her daughters face. "It was a long ride here so I'd the time to think," she begins to tell her softly, fixing her own hair back over her ear when she can't do the same to Santana's. When was the last time she'd been allowed? She's not lost hope for a chance. Not with what she shares next. "After hearing word of your father's death I sold the practice. We've enough to invest and live comfortably, _better_ without him. I've even put aside some to send you to that school you always talked of."

Silence falls across the room.

Brittany feels as if someone has ripped the very floor from beneath her feet.

Hendrick stands in anticipation for the response from Santana. It is the one opportunity he knows could draw her away from Lima… but at the cost of Brittany sure now to follow.

Santana is utterly astonished. "You… you'd pay for me to attend Geneva Medical College?"

Her mother need only nod once. "If you'll return with me and still wish to, then yes."

A small whimper escapes Brittany's lips.

Santana can't breathe beneath the pain that sound has rendered to her heart. "I… I _can't_."

Her mother approaches, eyes imploring for she knows her daughter sways upon a decision. "Santana, please, think on it a moment. _This_ is what you've _always_ wanted."

"I w-want it, but I've something _more_ here," Santana stammers, gaze finding Brittany's just over her shoulder.

"What could possibly be worth more here?" Mrs. Lopez exclaims, uncomprehending and at her wits end. The family here is crazed, poverty stricken and entrenched in incurable sickness. The home is a dull _shell_ of a relic and for goodness sake they still use an _outdoor_ toilet! The entire _property_ reeks of manure and hay and the uncultured _masses_ of farmland. It is not a suitable home! It is not _anything_ more! That school is all Santana's ever wanted! The only thing she's ever cared for! "¿Qué, Santana? _¿Qué_?!"

Santana reaches back, grabbing tight to Brittany's hand as she shouts, " _Her_! Brittany! _I love her."_

Hendrick nearly shatters the teakettle with the strength of his petrified grip.

Mrs. Lopez blinks, "You've been trapped on this farm too long and your senses have completely left you. You're speaking utter nonsense!"

"I love her," Santana repeats again, calm despite her mothers quickly unraveling composure. Brittany holds tight to Santana's hand, even as tears begin to collect at the corners of her eyes.

Hendrick cannot believe he is bearing witness to his greatest fear exposed in such spectacular ruin.

 _He was right_ , is the only thought able to break the surface of Mrs. Lopez conscious. _Albert was right_.

She is more than aware of what her daughter has confessed. Her child is in love with the boy-haired, ill-suited, poorly mannered, lanky-framed _woman_ at her side. Her heart stills as her husbands distressing letters come to mind, _She trails after this sickly thin rail of a boy, probably fancies herself in love with him despite better judgment_. _Let him bury his seed within her, she's no better than the harlots trying to gain attention at my door._

She never believed him, Santana not _once_ had showed interest in any of the fine men brought to their home thus why would she ever pay any mind to the boy Albert claimed she obsessed over? Her daughter was not the one seeking the sin of flesh at night. She knew full well it was he allowing those whores to his bed.

But he'd been right about Santana.

Only the boy was never a boy at all...

"This is _blasphemous_!" Mrs. Lopez shrieks, eyes wild as she points frantically to Brittany. "And _you_! Remove your _filthy_ hand from my daug—!"

Hendrick sweeps to intercept her before Mrs. Lopez can even think to lay a hand to his daughter. He cannot fault her judgment, a god-fearing woman would be wrong to react any differently. But as a father he abhors her disposition. "Please calm yourself Mrs. Lopez!"

" _You've allowed this_!" Mrs. Lopez struggles beneath the hold he's locked around her arms. "Unhand me!"

"I've allowed nothing and nor will I allow you to _bring harm to the girls_ ," he whispers to her ear, only letting go once she relaxes against him. Still holding to one of her arms he nods toward the porch. "Perhaps it's best we step outside a moment?"

Reluctantly, and with furtive glances placed back to Santana, Mrs. Lopez allows Hendrick to lead her outside.

As the door is shut Santana falls back into the chair, cradling her head in upturned palms. "She'll not leave without me now," she mutters, shuddering. "Why can't she have just been a c-cow?"

Brittany's not sure what Santana means as she kneels to the floor before her. She understands more the frightened pull of the muscles along Santana's shoulder and the heavily drawn breath she takes between her hands. Brittany gently plucks Santana's hands from her face, heart stilling at the terrified look within watery brown eyes.

 _There is nothing to be frightened of,_ she thinks, smiling up at Santana. Brittany leans forward, brushing her lips across heated cheeks. Santana lets her eyes fall close as Brittany cups her face and whispers between the kisses, "I love you."

"I've ruined _everything_."

"I'm so proud of you."

"I can't leave with her..."

"San, maybe… maybe you should."

Santana pulls away from Brittany's touch, the leather of the chair crinkling as her spine straightens. "Brittany? You can't mean—"

Brittany is smiling at her, smiling as tears slip from her eyes. "You've always wanted to be like Blackwell. This is your chance."

"You want me to g—go?"

Brittany quickly takes Santana's hands within her own, shaking her head as she answers, "No, I… you should go only if it's what you want." She's hardly able to maintain her small smile with her lips trembling as they are. "I know how you dream one day of having your own practice."

"I don't need a sheet of paper to prove I'm _competent_ ," Santana hisses out, gripping harder to Brittany's hand. "I _am_ a doctor, Brittany. You've said so, _hundreds_ of times. Or have you forgotten?"

"I haven't! You _are_ a doctor, the very best," Brittany assures her, tugging down on Santana's arms so brown eyes draw nearer to her own. "I just… I don't want you to regret staying. And it'd only be for a little while, right? You'd come back. She's giving you _everything_ you've ever dreamed of, San. How could you not want that?"

"I do," Santana whispers, letting go Brittany's hands to cup her face instead. "I already have it."

"But Blackfell—"

"I'm not leaving," Santana tells her, leaning forward until their foreheads meet. "Not ever."

"San…" Brittany breathes out, curling her fingers deep into the folds of Santana's skirt.

" _I promised you Brittany,"_ Santana whispers, kissing her soundly. "I'll not ever break that again."

When Mr. Pierce returns inside he doesn't immediately clear his throat for them to part. They are merely clinging to one another, his daughter's face buried against Santana's neck, tears evident at the corner of closed brown eyes. He watches them for a moment, knowing how hard this has been for them both.

He wishes he didn't have to see them torn apart. "Girls?"

They slowly pull away from one another, but not entirely. They know they've nothing to hide anymore.

Mrs. Lopez pushes her way inside past Hendrick. She does not look to her daughter as she announces, "Let's go Santana."

Brittany positions herself firmly in front of Santana. "She told you she's not leaving."

"This is absurd," Mrs. Lopez says with a roll of her eyes. "Andre get in here!" She shouts out the open door to her driver. He enters with haste, eyes scanning the room in search of luggage or reason alike for his summon. Mrs. Lopez suppresses a groan as she motions over toward Santana. "My daughter, just there, see to it she's seated in the carriage."

Santana levels him with a withering stare.

"Ah," Andre chuckles nervously. "She seems not to wish my help."

"She needs a great _deal_ of help," Mrs. Lopez says, pushing him forward. "So attend to her."

Andre pauses as Santana snorts. "Oh yes, abduct me, that'll be sure to _win me over._ "

"I don't know why everything must be a fight with you Santi, it's as if you don't wish for an education at all!"

"I don't wish to be _blackmailed_ into one!"

"Stop being ridiculous! Consider yourself lucky I am not having you committed for such sin!"

"Then consider me _dead_ once more!" Santana shouts, throat burning. " _I am staying_."

Mrs. Lopez lets out an exasperated sigh. "Santana, don't be absurd, do you really think you can forge some type of life here?"

" _I already have_ ," Santana tells her, done. She turns to the driver. "Excuse me? Andre, was it?" At his nod she grabs him by the collar of his shirt, twisting the fabric until he chokes out for air. " _Take her home or I make yours the bottom of a_ very _cold lake."_

"Entiendo, entiendo," he breathes out, nodding hastily as Santana shoves him toward her mother.

"Santana!" Mrs. Lopez cries out as Andre leads her back to the carriage. She doesn't fight him, not once. Santana knew she'd not try.

It hurts nonetheless, knowing she'd been right about her mother all along.

The driver closes the door to the carriage and for a moment Santana hopes her mother will prove her wrong, at the very least open the window to spare her one last look.

Santana can see her sitting inside the plush exterior, expression void of emotion as she stares with resolute concentration to the forward wall.

The driver sets the horse trotting down the path.

Santana finds herself walking down the porch steps as the carriage pulls away.

Her mother never turns back.

Brittany and Hendrick stand on the porch, watching as Santana comes to a stop in the middle of the wheel tracks. Her eyes are blurred with bitter tears as she turns to them, her gaze set upon Hendrick. "If you don't say something by morning, _I will._ "

Brittany tries to step down off porch for her but Hendrick holds her back. And no matter her struggle he doesn't let go until Santana's gone from sight.

Brittany shoves him hard into the wall once free. "Why do you hate her?"

"I don't, Brittany."

"You do! You don't say it but I can see you do! You think this is wrong!"

"Brittany," he sighs, starring at her sadly.

"It's not Pa! It's not wrong at all! Loving her is not wrong..." She trails off, slumping against the closed door. "Why can't you see that?"

"I do see it, Britt," he replies this time, surprising her. "I do."

"Then why…?"

"Because if anyone else saw too…" he whispers, bowing his head to rid the horrid thoughts from springing to his mind. "I don't even want to think of what would happen to you."

"We're safe here. _We are,_ " Brittany tells him, hoping for his change of heart. "No one else has to know… I love her so much, Pa. _Please_." This is her home, _their_ home. And if he feels Santana belongs...

He doesn't answer her.

Brittany doesn't know how much more of this she can endure.

As she walks away from him he thinks it's high time he read the letter that arrived for him just this morning, if only to cherish the words of a daughter that once loved him unconditionally.

* * *

_December 25th, 1862 **  
**_Dear Pa,

Merry Christmas! I don't know if you've heard anything or if a man came with a letter about me but I'm all right. Santana too. We were at a camp for hurt soldiers. My arm got real torn up at Hartsville but I was lucky Santana could fix it. I don't remember much of what happened and whenever I ask her she gets so quiet and sad. She saved me, just like she's helped Emily. How is she? I can't wait to see her and I hope she's still with you… I don't know what I'd do if she were already gone.

Santana says it's silly of me to write you this letter because you'll see my face before you can even read it. I don't want her to know I'm writing just in case you don't. We're so far from Lima still and even though I trust Noah to get us back after everything that's happened I didn't want to go without saying this to you. If something should happen to us I don't want you to be upset Pa. I'll be with Ma and soon Emily will be with us too. You know they always take real good care of me. Maybe now I can take care of them too. Santana's taught me so much so don't worry. Just look at how well I write now! I even used well properly. She's the best person I know and I love her with all my heart. If she should make it to Lima without me I need you to look after her for me. I promised her I would so that means you'll have to keep my promise. She's probably a terrible cook but her memory is perfect, she'll never forget to feed Apple or clean out the hen coup like me. She has no one in this world but you if I should die so please let her stay. Please love her like you love me. She deserves everything but most of all to be safe and happy. She'll smile again and when she does you'll see just how wonderful and beautiful she really is.

She wants me to go now. I'm afraid to leave. I miss you and hope you won't ever have to read this. But if you are, I don't ever regret taking your place, Pa. Not one bit. I'm happy and know someday I'll see you again.

Love you always,  
Brittany S. Pierce

P.S. – Don't show this letter to Lord Tubbington, I don't want him to be upset and stop eating. It's better this way.

* * *

**February 8th, 1863**

Upon Santana's word she comes to the farm in the morning.

Hendrick opens the door to her, sighing at her arrival. He rather hoped she'd come later. "Brittany's still out delivering eggs."

"I'll wait then," she tells him, rubbing some chill from her arms.

He opens the door wider. "It's freezing out here Santana, at least come inside."

It's not so much an offer but insisted. "Thank you…" she mumbles, skirting by him as she enters. "I know I'm the last person you probably wish to see."

"You're not," he answers truthfully, helping her from her coat. "I should have told her ages ago…"

Santana's expression softens. "You still can."

"Under your watch I assume?" He smiles knowingly beneath his scarf.

"If you'll allow me to stay," she tells him though she already knows his answer to be yes as he folds her coat overtop his chair. A faint cough filters in from the back room and Santana finds herself needing to ask, "How is she today?"

Hendrick plops down to his chair, exhaustion weighing down upon his large. "She's barely eaten a thing and anything more unsettles her stomach right up. Brittany sat reading to her all last night, helpin' her to drink some of the medicine your mother left. It's too late for it though, isn't it? I-I don't know how much longer I can watch my youngest be consumed by this disease. I just wish her _peace_ … does that make me a horrible father?" He asks, gaze imploring of her for a truthful answer.

Santana can't remember the last cordial conversation she's had with him like this. It thus takes her a moment to answer. "No, it makes you human."

He bows his head, staring down into the fire in thought. He's worried, of that Santana can see plainly as the creases in his forehead deepen.

"We're doing everything we can for her," she says, touching his shoulder gently.

He looks up at her. "How much longer you reckon?"

She can't tell him. Dr. Nelson is to be the one to let him know... "I can't say, it's—"

He places his hand atop her own. "Please Santana," he begs of her. "Please just tell me."

She wets her lips, unable to meet his eyes as she tells him, "Dr. Nelson said not a few days more." She squeezes his hand. "I'm so sorry Mr. Pierce, I—"

"Hendrick," he corrects her as he pushes himself up from his chair. "I'd like for you to call me Hendrick."

Santana is unsure, but nods regardless.

Until she suddenly finds herself wrapped in his arms and his whispered words wash over her ears. "You're as much a part of this family as my girls. _Please don't ever let me forget that again_."

* * *

Brittany shifts the empty egg bucket to her other arm, rolling out the cramp that's formed in shoulder. Her scar has ceased hurting, but she feels it regardless, throbbing some beneath her layers of clothes. She doesn't mind being reminded of how it came to be, for she'd gladly step back in the path of that boy's sword again if it meant keeping Santana from harm. The soreness of the scar now feels more a residual phantom of the pain endured during Mrs. Lopez wrath.

Brittany desperately hopes the woman never sets foot back on her farm.

She also thinks she might set bear traps along the path just to be sure.

It never hurts to be ready in any case.

She tosses the empty bucket to the snow pile just outside the porch steps as she makes her way up. Unwinding the scarf from her neck she notices some bits of snow sprinkled near the front door. Someone had kicked their feet clean before entering and judging by the melting imprints someone not at all her father.

Brittany fears them belonging to Mrs. Lopez and squares herself taller before entering the home.

The front room is empty save for a warm fire and Santana's coat draped over her father's chair. Her heart leaps in her chest at the sight.

Hendrick emerges from the kitchen not a minute later, fiddling with that same stupid scarf on his face.

"San's here?" she asks though expects no reply. She's already smiling.

"She's in with Emily now, hasn't been here but a few—Brittany! Hold on, please," he calls for her before she can disappear down the hall. She looks across the room to him, expectant, itching to get to Emily's room. "I'm so sorry. I just… I—" he was never much one for eloquent words let alone proper apologies. Klara was always so much better with the girls than he when it came to matters of the heart. He scratches just over the beating muscle contained in his ribs and a crinkle of sound meets his ears. Brittany's brow furrows as he pulls out her letter from his breast pocket.

"That's my letter," she says, astonished, thinking it lost after all this time.

"It came with the post yesterday," he explains softly.

"Did you read it?"

He nods. He's read it near twenty times already. "I never should have forced Santana to go."

"No, you shouldn't have," Brittany mutters as she pokes at a knot in the wood of the hall entryway. She's not sure what he's trying to say, but after yesterday she's hesitant to think it anything good.

"You're in love with her and I've… I've _hurt_ that. Hurt _you_ ," Hendrick tells her, voice growing overwhelmed by regret. Brittany slides away as he tries to place a hand to her shoulder. She's walking from him. Desperate, he catches her by the wrist, careful it's not the arm she's re-injured. "No, Brittany wait, please, let me finish. _Please_. My heart can't bear another day living as we are."

"Mine has!" Brittany says to him as she wretches her arm free. He hates himself for the sheen of tears now collecting in her eyes. "Do you even _love me_ anymore?"

He hates himself more at that declaration. "I've not stopped loving you, _not once,_ " he assures her. "I never wanted for you to ever doubt that or to… to grow to _hate me_ as you do now."

"You stopped talking to me," Brittany whispers, her reserve crumbling. "You stopped _everything_."

"And for that and more I am _sorry_ , Brittany. All I've ever w-wanted is for you to be safe and happy and _everything_ you wished for Santana in that letter. You deserve it _just as much_."

"I am Pa, with her I am."

"I know, I've _always_ known," he says, pulling her into a tight hug, savoring the embrace he's longed for. His daughter cries against his chest, shaking and yet unwilling to let go. She's missed him and feeling such warmth in her hold Hendrick begins weeping too. "I'm so sorry. Ik hou van je."

Brittany clings to his shirtfront, forgiving him as she whispers back, "Ik hou van je, Pa."

Knowing it best they not remain so close for long Hendrick gently pulls away, wiping at his eyes before Brittany's able to see. She thinks it silly of him to try for its clear in the wet breath he drags through his nose that he's just as fragile, if not more so, than she.

"At least you already have a hanky in place, huh Pa?" she teases, twisting some frayed ends of his scarf between her fingers.

Hendrick chuckles, swatting her hand aside in favor of showing her a portion of the letter he's memorized. He points down toward the bottom, holding it out for her to take. "You smile like that with her, you know? The way you used to at me when you could barely stand taller than my waist. As if I was your whole world," he tells her, brushing some of her remaining tears off her cheeks. "Santana deserves that smile far more than I."

She grins at him, a toothy, wide smile he's not seen for weeks… now for him. "You deserve it too, Pa." He can't help but swell with regard.

He lets out a chuckle to hide the way he feels his heart has just burst in his chest. "I've had them for twenty-two years," he tells her, smirking as he adds, "And given that woman she was dealt for mother I think Santana's due her share now don't you reckon?"

Brittany hugs him this time, longer than before. "I love her so much. She's mijn zielsverwant, Pa. _I know it_."

"Maybe so," he says, wishing to speak truthfully despite the slight flash of hurt his uncertainty has brought to Brittany's eyes. There are qualms he has for their pairing, worries any father would over letting go their child. It's all exacerbated now after Mrs. Lopez arrival, but also his trust in Santana reinforced. His faith in his daughter steadfast. _They'll be okay together_ , he thinks. They'll keep each other safe. "I may not understand it _entirely_ but I will try, Brittany. Love is never something to be feared."

"No, it's not," Brittany agrees as she refolds her letter and slips it back into her father's pocket. She pats his chest and gives a flick of her fingers against the end of his scarf. "But maybe your new obsession with scarves. Think yourself a bandit now or are you just growing another ugly beard under there?"

Hendrick chuckles, stepping back from her reach. "Can't a man be cold in peace?" He declares, sidestepping as she lunges for it again.

"No beards!"

"I promise it's not a beard!" he laughs, swinging her around on another attempt. He gives her a gentle shove toward the hall. "We can discuss it all tonight. I'm sure you want to see Santana."

Brittany smiles back at him. Wonderful, beautiful. "Things will be better now, Pa, you'll see."

He wonders how he'll ever tell her of his sickness now.

* * *

Brittany knocks gently against Emily's door before peeking inside, still reeling from her reunion with her father. She cannot wait to tell Emily, to see her face glow with happiness at the news Santana is now to stay. To hug Santana and lift her clear from her feet as Emily watches on, all of them elated to be family once more.

The curtains are in their usual position, drawn open to allow in the bright sunlight. But something has changed in the air, a familiar stillness Brittany tries to ignore as she pushes the door open slowly. It is merely stuffy, she tells herself, knowing the mask has made her feel so before.

This stuffy she knows all too well. It feels the same way the medical tents did when fever struck and men lie wasting in cots…she can still smell the way the quinine clung to Santana's coat.

Gooseflesh rises along her arms as Santana's ashen face meets her gaze.

" _Brittany_ ," and the way Santana's just uttered her name...

Her eyes dart to Emily. She's sitting up in her bed with a half filled cup of milk held loosely in her hand. The same one Brittany had given her earlier, not two hours prior before she left on errand. Some milk has spilled to the blanket in her lap.

Emily is always so careful...

Santana calls for her again.

Emily has yet to smile at her in greeting, however strained and long it now takes her to do so. This is too long. Brittany's throat swells. "Peanut?"

Emily's eyes remain closed.

"Brittany, she's—" Santana's voice wavers.

She need not finish for Brittany can clearly see the way life no longer fills her sisters chest.

Brittany tries to swallow down the feeling of her stomach now rising to her throat, but her eyes begin to water at the bitter taste forming along her tongue. She can't hold back the sob and rips the mask from over her face as she stumbles back, gasping for air.

"Brittany!" Santana beseeches, reaching for her.

Brittany sucks in a deep breath, shaking her head as she fumbles backward from the room. It's only once her back meets the hall wall that she tears her gaze from her sister. Her shoulders shake, tears falling quickly down her cheeks.

She swears she can hear Emily's bell ringing.

It's all she can hear anymore.

Brittany lets out a strangled cry as her knees give and she slams down to the floor.

Santana rushes forward, enclosing her in a sturdy embrace before she can shut herself away.

Hendrick remains frozen in the hall entry, pale and quiet.

After a moment he too sinks to the floor beside his girls, pulling them close as he too lets grief consume him.

* * *

The funeral is simple and completed by noon. Brittany doesn't remember a word of what was said to her, or even how she made it from their front room to the cemetery just on the outskirts of town. Everything felt so dark with the shutters pulled and endless stream of black clad figures passing into their home. Dreamlike even if it wasn't for the very real buzz of sentiments constantly whispered to her ear.

She didn't really hear them though.

She can't even recall one face amongst the many.

She remembers more the man who came to place Emily within her coffin, how he sighed and lamented that he'd brought a size too small. How filled with horror and spite she grew at his oversight.

Santana had to pull her aside and all she can recollect is how hard she shook as she cried against her shoulder.

Her Pa cried too. She can still feel the stain of his tears long dried now atop her head.

Santana never once let go though; her sole anchor that clammy hand and solid presence by her side.

They stand now beneath the shade and shelter of crooked elm, watching Hendrick from afar. It had started to snow midway through the burial, many in attendance heading home before their horses could start to feel frozen in limb and mind. Santana had pulled her up here once the last shovel of dirt was placed over the grave. Without a cap Santana worried frostbite striking Brittany's exposed ears.

Brittany hadn't cared. She was rather glad to leave the cemetery grounds.

He father though seems not ready to go at all. He's not moved from beside Emily's grave for near a half hour. The snow has begun to collect in thick patches atop his shoulders and cap.

Worrying for him now, Santana speaks softly, "I'm going to check on him. Will you be okay for a moment here?"

Brittany's nod is barely perceptible, but there nonetheless.

Santana kisses her cheek gently and gives a squeeze of Brittany's hand before letting go for the first time since her breakdown that morning. "I'll be right back, Britt. Promise."

Brittany watches her carefully walk down the slope of the small hill, and even manages a hint of a smile when Santana lets out a squeal and slides down the remaining couple feet. The winter countryside was still something she'd yet to conquer.

Santana brushes the snow from her body, assuring Brittany, "I'm fine!"

Brittany barely manages to raise her hand and wave that she's heard.

Santana waves back, knowing Brittany's demurred character is expected. It scares her nevertheless, seeing Brittany so numbed to emotion. Turning back toward Hendrick, Santana hikes her coat collar up higher and shivers against a small gust of wind carried across the open field. She makes her way between the sparse scattering of grave markers, stopping just once to ensure the knitted socks Brittany placed on Apple's legs are well above the fresh snow layer.

He shakes the snow from his mane as she scratches behind his ear, whining softly as if he too knows what has come to pass.

Once at Hendricks side, Santana thinks Apple made for far better company.

The aggrieved father can't look away from his daughter's grave.

"No parent is ever meant to bury their child," he says, solemn as he stands staring down at the loose dirt and snow. He lets out a tired sigh. "I know what you wish to say to me Santana, so out with it already."

She was rather hoping to have eased into that conversation. "You must tell her, Hendrick, now especially."

He gazes up at her through hollow eyes. "She's just lost her sister, how do you imagine she'd fare hearing she's to lose me as well?"

Santana cannot deny the truth to his heavy words. Regardless she tells him, "She's stronger than you think. Keeping this from her will only make it all the worse."

"I will tell her… just not yet," he promises, returning his gaze to the ground. "Let her mourn for Emily. Let me."

She leaves him to his thoughts, catching sight of Brittany walking off down the road through the corner of her vision.

Santana follows, though keeps her distance, both curious and worried for where Brittany is wandering to alone. She hadn't left her for too long... _And she knew I'd return_.

The snow stops falling after some time, but Brittany does not.

Santana's feet begin to feel numb to the cold but she follows on.

It's not till the familiar line of trees enter sight that she realizes the lake is Brittany's destination. And once there Brittany neatly folds her skirt to the side as she takes a seat near the frozen water's edge. From within her coat pocket she pulls out a thin book, the cover recognizable even from a distance. It was one of Emily's favorites.

Then Santana strains to listen as Brittany begins speaking.

"Hi Em… and Ma too if you're here." Her voice is gravelly, unused. She clears it once before continuing, "I didn't want to say anything at the cemetery. I don't really think you're there anyway, peanut, it's too eerie." Brittany crinkles her nose as she looks up across the lake. She smiles. "You liked it here best."

Santana leans herself against the tree, heart breaking as she watches Brittany begin to toy with the corners of the book.

"Everyone else had so much to say though, didn't they?" Brittany asks aloud, biting back a sob. "P-Pa asked me if I wanted to say a few words but I couldn't think of just a couple. I could fill _hundreds_ of letters with everything I forgot to tell you. Some would be long, almost like a bunch of the poems in this book you kept asking me to read you. I'm sorry I always fell asleep," she laments, spreading the book open in her lap.

Brittany touches a page tentatively, tracing her sister's notes along the margin. Emily was never one to stay silent.

"If I did speak I would have told you how sad I am that you're gone but how _happy_ I am that you're with Ma and not hurting anymore. I'm sure you're already hunting for a dance to go to and now you won't have to worry about Pa scaring away any of the boys who ask you for a twirl. Though maybe Ma will now? You should let her dance Ma, it's all she ever wanted. But don't let any awful boys have a turn," Brittany is adamant of this. She grows befuddled though, wondering aloud, "Do they even have awful boys up there?"

The silence of a forest blanketed in fresh snow meets her ears.

Brittany slumps forward, trailing a finger down her sister's penmanship. "I wish you could answer me. I m-miss you so much already…"

She closes the book with a snap before more of her tears can drop down to the page. "Here, this was your favorite book and it ain't fair for you not to have it. Pa said I could bury it with you but then you'd have to always dig it up and make a mess and that don't make much sense to me."

Brittany lays it to the snow just beside where the frozen lake water has encased come dead reeds in ice.

"So I'll leave it here and come to read to you, just like I did before…I promise I won't fall asleep," she says, wiping furiously at her eyes. "I'll read you one now to prove it, okay?"

A cascade of snow crashes somewhere at her back and Brittany turns at the sound, unsurprised when Santana's snow-dusted head peeks out from behind the tree. "San?"

Santana steps away from the tree but not any nearer to Brittany. "I… I'll go, I'm sorry Britt, I didn't mean to—"

"No," Brittany tells her, not wanting her to go just yet. "Stay, please?"

"I don't want to intrude…" Santana confesses, feeling she's already stumbled upon Brittany's privacy. When Brittany merely pats the snow beside her Santana can't help it as she asks, "Are you sure?"

Brittany nods, smiling across the bank of snow at her. "You're a Pierce too."

Being reminded of the very name she cherishes and now shares is enough for Santana. She settles down at Brittany's side, snuggling beneath the arm Brittany drapes over her shoulders.

"Here," Santana collects the small book from the snow, opening it to Emily's favorite page in Brittany's lap. "I believe another Pierce is waiting."

Brittany begins reading but breaks down crying part way through, unable to carry on. With one arm looped low behind Brittany's back and a blonde head resting calmly on her shoulder, Santana finishes the passage. She nuzzles her cheek against Brittany's head afterward, breathing in the other woman's familiar scent. Peace settles amongst their spot near the water's edge and they're silent for a moment. Warm, yet forlorn, their thoughts upon the girl whom loved nothing more than to hear her sister proudly recite the poems from the book. Brittany presses nearer to Santana.

Her throat feels raw as she threads her fingers between Santana's, squeezing once as she picks her head up from a slim shoulder.

"At least I didn't fall asleep that time," she whispers, a hint of a smile coming to her lips. "I promised her I wouldn't."

Santana smiles too. "I'm sure Em appreciated it."

Brittany turns to her. Blue eyes are still stained with tears; a small twitch and quiver of thin lips evidence of Brittany's freshly broken heart. But Santana leans in anyway and kisses her with soft purpose, drawing her deeper and further from the hurt. She shares in the pain of loss, feels it tightening in her chest, just the same as Brittany. It's different than with Michael, more relentless yet bearable all the same.

It still hurts.

It still has Brittany kissing her harder and willing the pain away.

 _In time_ , she thinks, pulling away to rest her forehead against Brittany's. "Would you like to read to her tomorrow?"

Brittany lets out a hiccup of sound, nodding and smiling as she presses her lips back to Santana's once again.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation Guide:
> 
> No puedo - I can't.
> 
> Podemos empezar nuevamente - We can start new.
> 
> Qué - What
> 
> Entiendo - I understand.
> 
> Ik hou van je - I love you.
> 
> mijn zielsverwant - my soulmate.


	26. Tell Me a Tale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poem credit in this chapter: Faith and Despondency by Emily Bronte

_**February 27** _ _**th** _ _**, 1863** _

As of late, Brittany has formed the habit of waking well before the other two members of the house. She rises before the songbirds perch in the trees and begin their morning calls. Well before even Tubbington finally settles atop the warm quilt at the foot of their bed after a night spent hunting rats in the barn attic. It is always quiet in the pre-dawn, dark and chill afore the sun can start to thaw the frost collected on the windowpanes overnight.

She thinks of her sister during those hours, staring into nothing and filling the void with imaginings of the vibrant dances Emily's attended and endless fields of daisies their mother once set picnic for them amid. It is better than the other thoughts that steal to her mind, ones that leave her curling deeper into the warmth of the blankets, foremost seeking Santana's comfort to cast them away. These are memories haunting in nature, more stilling even than the blood of her fellow countrymen sprayed to her feet. Visions of pale cheeks and the burning touch of chilled skin. Memories of a plain wooden box and the painful echo of the nails driven through its lid. The ever-lingering smell of spilled milk…

And as much as Santana tries to allay the hollow look within Brittany's eyes it still remains after, just as present as before.

Brittany cannot close her eyes without seeing Emily's face.

She's stopped trying to.

Sleep, even with the aide of medication, has been troublesome.

Santana worries for her, she knows. It's hard not to see the way brown eyes stare at her from over her bowl of oatmeal in the morn, no matter how covert Santana believes she is. She thinks Santana should be more concerned for her father, for he's not come out from Emily's room — _his_ room now, since that day they laid her body to rest.

Brittany's not set foot inside for longer than the time it takes to set a cup of tea on the dresser.

She can't will herself to stay any more than a few seconds, no matter the need she has to see her father's face and assure him that all will be well.

If anything good has come from her disturbed sleep it is that the farm has been well cared for during Hendrick's grieving absence.

The work eases her mind. By dawn the animals are all tended to, fresh wood chopped and collected for the day in a neat stack beside the kitchen door. The fields will have to wait for sunrise but on this day there is also the matter of arranging Santana's surprise down by the lake.

Brittany hopes she will like it.

She's been waiting to share this with her for some time now.

She's also starting to feel a bit tired. The oatmeal she is cooking for everyone has yet to release a wisp of steam and her feet are sore and in want of rest. A clump of the soggy meal gurgles against the spoon she's neglected to move. Brittany yawns and gives it a turn around the pot. Outside the frosted glass of the kitchen window, the sun begins to peak across the barren fields. The glow upon her face is a welcome change from the cold whispers of moonlight she's grown accustomed to.

She douses the oil lamp to her side as the room brightens with the start of day.

Santana has usually shuffled to the table by now, drowsy and bleary, but today not a stir of sound meets Brittany's ears.

Brittany's heart warms regardless; Santana is always wont to oversleep when her body craves the rest midnight sex has deprived her of. Brittany hadn't meant to keep her awake, even for the small portion of time she needed to feel that heart racing against her own. She neither regrets it though. Those moments when Santana lies bare before her are some of her most cherished.

Leaving the oatmeal to cook on its own, Brittany sets off for the bedroom.

She'll have to wake Santana, a task she has rather come to enjoy.

They share the bed in what was once Hendrick's room, the small space now boasting traces and flares of both their temperaments now with his moved. The dresser is littered with Emily's old poetry books and a tidy pile of Santana's borrowed medical journals. A small collection of Brittany's scarves and gloves are strewn overtop the only available space left, dangling in a way Tubbington finds irresistible upon occasion. Their clothes hang neatly to the old dressing screen if not discarded to the floor, at present a nightgown lies near the bedside window. _Santana's_ , Brittany thinks coyly as she pushes the door open wider, mindful to remain silent.

Her eyes fall to her pair of riding boots, caked in dried mud, where they lean against the bedpost awaiting sole repairs.

She makes note to take them to town today before Quinn arrives. Or at the very least to ask Santana if she might before setting off for Dr. Nelson's.

Her old pair fit too tight and had been meant for Emily to wear come spring…

Brittany swallows thickly, chest tightening, and forces her attention to where Santana rests.

A small trickle of morning light spills across the foot of the bed where Tubbington sits alert, watching her with mild disinterest. He lets out a purr as she moves closer, stretching and yawning from his spot beside Santana's feet. He leaps down off the mattress and rubs his side against Brittany's leg before setting off out the door and for the blanket she's surely left for him beside the front room fire.

Brittany makes sure to close the door quietly once his tail sweeps past the frame. Santana hasn't stirred. She's still deep asleep spread on her stomach as Brittany carefully crawls up onto the foot of the bed. The blankets are a mess of pooled fabric low along Santana's back. A sliver of her skin peeks out from where her nightshirt has ridden up in the exchange. Brittany's fingers ache to dip beneath the shirt and slide across the smooth skin below. Especially so as she edges nearer and discovers it's not Santana's shirt at all but one of her own.

They're always far too big on her, endearingly so.

Brittany smiles as she hovers overtop the sleeping woman, letting her fingers finally slip beneath loose fabric to meet the warmed skin beneath. Santana flinches at the cool touch of Brittany's hand, her eyes squinting shut as she buries herself deeper into the bed and pillows.

"San?" Brittany murmurs, pressing a kiss to her covered shoulder. She pulls the shirt up higher, tracing a slow path up Santana's back. Nuzzling her nose against the groove of Santana's neck she whispers, "Je bent zo mooi."

Santana begins smiling though remains relaxed, content beneath the soft kisses Brittany brushes across her ear. "I've no idea what you just said…"

"That's okay," Brittany tells her softly, scooting her knees up beside Santana's hips. She's not told her yet, but she adores the rough quality of Santana's voice as she awakens. It is one of her favorite sounds. She nibbles some at her ear, teasing, "I just wanted to wake you."

"I'm supposed to be learning, aren't I?" Santana asks with a groggy chuckle, swatting half-heartedly at Brittany's attentions. Brittany manages to steal another kiss to Santana's neck before sitting back along her heels and allowing Santana the space to turn beneath her. Her shirt has ridden up higher along her torso as she settles on her back but Santana hasn't a care to spare for her state of undress. Blinking the sleep from her eyes she reaches up, and with a smirk tugs Brittany down by her suspenders. "Tell me," she demands, though it comes out more the words of an impatient youth than the assertive woman she was hoping to express.

Brittany laughs but concedes. "Je bent zo mooi," she repeats, tucking some of Santana's mussed hair back from over her forehead and cheeks. Brown eyes grow softer at the warm tone of Brittany's lowered voice. She's not heard or seen her so… so _spirited_ in weeks. Brittany leans closer, smiling as she translates, "You're so beautiful."

Santana stares up at her for a moment, feeling heat rush up through her chest and spill across her cheeks. How Brittany still manages to arouse such emotion within her with words so simple she knows not. She tugs down once more on those suspenders, capturing the lips above hers in a needed kiss. "Te amo, Britt," she whispers before they can fully part.

A crinkle forms at the corners of Brittany's eyes as she smiles against Santana's mouth and pulls away to tell her, "Tea ammo… too, San."

Even butchered as her Spanish is, it still has Santana's stomach twisting in the most pleasant way possible. Brittany sits up, taking hold of Santana's hands and fitting their palms flat against her own. Her expression grows thoughtful as their fingers splay and bend. Santana's hands are so much smaller than hers.

Emily's fit in almost the same way… almost.

Santana can see the shift in the way Brittany's brow dips and the once-playful twine of their fingers grows slowed. She tries not to let it sound like a sigh as she calls for her, "Brittany…"

Brittany doesn't meet her gaze though; she lets their clasped hands fall down to Santana's exposed stomach. "I know what you want to ask me. Your forehead always gets all wrinkly before you do."

It is not accusatory, but concerned, Santana's response. "You're not here again."

"I'm okay today," Brittany tells her, proving so by meeting the brown eyes staring up at her with such expectation. She squeezes Santana's hands and brings them to her lips, pressing an assured kiss to her knuckles. She can't ignore the relief when Santana grins in response to her gesture. "Quinn should be here this afternoon."

"Hopefully _sans_ the succubus," Santana says, clearly irritated that Berry would even so much as intrude on her thoughts. She lets her hands fall from Brittany's down to the mattress at her sides. Santana groans, shutting her eyes as she mutters, "If she's brought her, Britt…"

Brittany tries not to laugh but snorts despite herself. "She promised Rachel _wasn't_ coming. I think Quinn needs this time away even though she says the visit is for us."

Santana hums thoughtfully, eyes still closed as Brittany begins tracing light patterns across her stomach. "She won't ever wish to return," she points out smartly, voice hitching as Brittany's hands slide lower. "I m-mean, just listen to that."

The hands still and Brittany struggles to hear anything despite the faint crackle of the fire in the room adjacent. "San..." she trails off, now worried for the woman below her. "I know you can't hear so good anymore but there ain't anything making noise."

Santana grins wide. " _Exactly_."

"You're very spiteful today," Brittany says with a laugh, poking at Santana's belly.

"I'm being entirely honest," Santana corrects her, though continues smirking nonetheless. "If she comes we'll not ever hear such glorious silence again."

"We will though," Brittany counters, trailing her fingers across Santana's abdomen and just beneath the rise if her shirt. She arches an eyebrow down at Santana, amused. "You'd make her sleep in the barn, remember?"

" _Deservedly_ ," Santana breathes out, conversation soon forgotten as her shirt is pushed up past her chest. She clutches to the slacks bunched against Brittany's knees, arching up into the fingers Brittany rolls across her hardening nipples. Her eyes fall closed and a moan is withheld, swallowed with a bite of her bottom lip.

There's something sparked within Brittany by the look, keeping her upon her knees instead of bending low to pull that lip between her teeth. For oh how she wishes nothing more than to kiss Santana in this moment. Whatever fatigue once weighed upon her body has vanished. She remains on her haunches, watching Santana's breaths grow quicker, a sense of pride swelling within her knowing she alone can elicit such a response from the woman below her. But more so affection, desirous in nature and want alike. She's entirely enamored by the blush upon Santana's cheeks and the tiny whispers of sound able to push past her lips. She wants more of that, more of _her_.

Being with Santana always helps her to forget.

Brittany drags her hands down across Santana's breasts and back to her stomach. Lithe muscles twitch beneath her touch and the sound Brittany yearned to hear finally gushes forth.

Her name, uttered breathlessly, needful and unguarded.

Brittany leans down without effort, one elbow planted to the bed while the other remains seared against Santana's abdomen. And then she kisses her as she's wanted to since entering the room, deliberate and slow. The way in which her thoughts and worries vanish, lost instead to the feel and taste of Santana. Her hand inches higher, the strong and rapid thuds of Santana's heart present even beneath the swell of her breasts. Her skin heats below Brittany's palms.

"You're very warm today," Brittany observes, smiling into the kiss Santana is so desperate to deepen.

Santana lets out a grunt of appreciative agreement as her hands tangle in the short strands of Brittany's hair.

"Like fire," Brittany whispers, yielding finally to Santana's desires. A thought squeezes past her defenses, stilling in nature. Teeth barely manage to rake over her bottom lip when she pulls back with a snap, expression contorted in mild horror as she asks, "How long is it that oatmeal must cook for?"

Santana can do little more than blink up at her in response.

Brittany sniffs at the air, inquisitive. "Maybe I should go see—"

At the word 'go' Santana's hands spring forward, holding Brittany firmly in place atop her. "I think you should stay."

Before Brittany can keep the thought within her mind she finds herself saying aloud, "You do taste better than oatmeal."

Santana's face reddens, her eyes darkening, exhilarated, at the comment.

Brittany purses her lips as her eyes dart toward the door. "It might be burning though."

Santana can't help but feel she's the one ablaze. "Brittany, _please_ ," she implores, tugging Brittany back down.

"Oatmeal can't set on fire can it?" Brittany asks, still clearly upset even despite the attention Santana now devotes to rekindling along her neck. "Because I do want to have you San but I'd also like us not to die in a blaze. Especially if it's my doing."

The neck her lips were just so fully working upon moves, Brittany's body soon with it. Santana gapes, astounded as long legs swing over toward the edge of the bed.

Brittany is on her feet.

Brittany is _leaving_.

_For oatmeal_.

_Fire be damned_ , Santana thinks. She tosses off the quilt and scrambles up from the bed. Her bare feet smack against the cold wood floor, shirt rightfully falling back over her frame as she surges forward. She grabs Brittany, spinning her around and before word of protest can leave those lips Santana crashes hers atop them.

In an instant, the oatmeal is forgotten.

Brittany's back hits the wall, hands resuming their claim over Santana's breasts. Even through the fabric of her shirt Santana arches into her palms, groaning low as she kisses her harder. This kiss is far more frenzied, lips already deliciously swollen and tongues seeking to quench further need. It's broken only so the shirt can be pulled from over Santana's head, and quickly resumed once released to the floor. Fingers now no longer impeded pursue the hardened peaks at Santana's breasts.

Santana's feelings are further amplified by the brazen touch. Her stomach plunges far lower; blood rushes through her veins far hotter. She wants so much more of Brittany and has craved to have her in such an unrestrained manner.

They've not been together outside the confines of the bed in weeks.

Nor has Brittany shown quite such passion since Emily's passing.

Their kiss is broken again as Brittany turns them suddenly, a thud of noise echoing as Santana's backside meets the wall. The blue eyes before her have grown hooded and dark, pupils wide. Brittany licks her lips and the pressure within Santana's constricts, bubbling quick as she tries to temper her breathing. She feels prey to the want in Brittany's gaze, more than willing. She hooks a leg over Brittany's hip, drawing her nearer in silent answer.

Santana's skin is hot beneath the palm Brittany drags down Santana's thigh.

Santana curls her toes into the unyielding wood floor, back slipping down the wall ever so slightly as Brittany presses a wet kiss to her throat. She pulls her upright, grip upon Santana's thigh tightening as she holds her in place. Her lips move down across Santana's collarbone, a mark left low over her breast. Santana gasps, surprised by the sudden feel of Brittany's fingers brushing against her center. Her hips roll against Brittany's hand, fraught for a deeper touch.

Santana whimpers out in dissatisfaction as Brittany slides her hand away and up to her waist instead.

Any words she wishes to utter in protest are silenced as Brittany slams herself down to her knees.

The floorboards creak beneath quickly bruised skin, Brittany's desire heightened at the stronger scent of Santana's need. Fingers bury into the blonde hair, urging Brittany's mouth closer. Gripping tight to Santana's thigh, Brittany pushes her leg open wider and parts heated lips with a stroke of her tongue.

Santana's head knocks against the wall as her supporting knee buckles beneath the feel of Brittany's mouth upon her.

It is all she can feel.

Every nerve of every fiber within her pulls taut as Brittany increases pressure.

She's sure she's falling, supported only by hands and a glorious, _glorious_ tongue.

" _Brittany_...!" The name spurs Brittany's movements deeper.

Santana bites back another cry, and with one more stroke of Brittany's tongue, she is undone.

The leg once loosely curled over Brittany's shoulder tightens as Santana's body begins to shudder. Brittany holds her until the tremors pass and all that remains of her release are ragged breaths.

Santana's hands are still buried in her hair.

Brittany's not quite ready to move yet, knowing Santana can no more stand on her own than she can open her eyes at the moment. She's thrilled to have brought her such pleasure, warmed to see her easing from it now. She pulls away just enough to rest her cheek against the bare thigh at her shoulder, waiting for the the rise and fall of Santana's chest to come more evenly.

As her breaths slow Brittany rises, pressing slow kisses up across Santana's stomach; a trail of wet imprints are left in her wake. Santana is still reeling, unable to open her heavy eyes as Brittany stands before her. She can feel the brush of Brittany's nose against her own, lips hovering just beyond reach. She's waiting for her, waiting for her heart to calm and brown eyes to open and meet her own.

They do open, dark in color and heavy with the same want that coursed through Brittany only moments before. Santana pushes up from the wall, claiming Brittany's lips with a low moan. There are faint traces of herself there, more as Brittany parts her lips and deepens the kiss.

She needs her undressed.

The suspenders are slid down first.

Brittany kisses her harder, willing her thoughts to be lost to Santana and her alone. She cannot let go though... not all together. When feeling so alive it is impossible to keep the stanzas from seeping to her mind.

_And, in the red fire's cheerful glow,_

Her shirt is pulled free from slacks now slung low over her hips. She pulls Santana closer.

_Exhausted with repinings vain,_

Her heart beats faster, darkness edging into the glow of light spilled over top closed eyes.

The creak of wood beneath their feet splits her ears, grating. Hauntingly familiar.

Hands immediately seek the smooth skin of her stomach once concealed.

She is chilled.

_That I shall greet them never again._

Brittany pulls away sharply as Santana's hand slips beneath her waist line. "W-wait," she whispers hastily, squirming in both delay and need. Fear paints the blue of her eyes and Santana stills. Her hand remains, paused, just beneath the fold of Brittany's slacks.

The look of hurt that flashes in brown eyes nearly sets Brittany recanting her words.

"You've not let me," Santana tells her softly, for Brittany's seldom felt her touch since Emily passed. She's not questioned her, not once in all the times Brittany has held her close instead, whispering of times they are to share later... that she cannot let go just quite yet.

It is obvious Emily consumes her thoughts.

That even now upon the verge of such passion her heart still aches with loss.

Brittany's gaze both yearns for forgiveness and fingers to dip between her thighs. But she's rigid with hesitation. Santana kisses her gently, coaxing the fire within her to burn anew. She pulls away just enough to whisper, "I crave you just as much."

Brittany releases an uneven and slow breath. Far more sure are the hands she runs up Santana's arms. "I want you, Santana, I do," she tells her, voice tinged with unspoken regret. She cups Santana's face between her palms, willing for brown eyes to understand.

Santana bites back the sting of unshed tears. "Then why have you stopped me?"

Brittany lets her chin fall as she confesses, "I close my eyes and all I see is her..."

Santana's heart sinks at the words. She knows, of course, but to hear Brittany say it with such pain... She cannot let her hurt so. Santana removes her hand from the slacks, hooking fingers instead over the bend of Brittany's elbows. Her eyes catch on the jagged scar across Brittany's forearm. The stark white is prevalent against the splash of her skin.

It shan't ever fade.

And somehow, impossibly almost, she loves Brittany all the more.

Santana turns her head and presses a long kiss over the mark.

Emily's death may still yet bleed her heart but the wound shall heal, just as this one. And if Brittany should want for Santana's touch, she will find her. She always has.

"San?" Brittany murmurs, tone anxious.

Santana meets her gaze. "I love you," she says, voice still shaky and raw. "I know you miss her still."

"I do," Brittany whispers, warmed by Santana's understanding. She wants her all the more. Brittany gently tilts Santana's head up, reconnecting their lips. The spark reignites within them both. "Te ammo San, so much."

Santana is spurred by the confidence in Brittany's tone. Breaking their heated kiss, she trails a path down Brittany's jaw. "Trust in me?"

"Always," Brittany breathes out, threading her fingers into Santana's hair. She needs her closer, that mouth one more dragging over her skin.

Santana steps forward, pressing their bodies flush together so little more than her hand can manage to slip beneath the belt line of Brittany's slacks. Brittany bites her bottom lip, withholding a moan as Santana whispers to her ear. "Then don't let your eyes close." She nudges Brittany's forehead back up.

Dark eyes have never locked with her own in such patient desire. Brittany trembles, heat pools low in her belly.

"Look at me," Santana urges gently.

Brittany nods, breathing deeply as Santana's left hand slides between the apex of her thighs. The slacks slip further down her naked hips and Brittany wishes nothing more than to bury her face against Santana's neck. She withholds, keeping her gaze, however unsteady it's become, upon the ardent brown eyes before her.

Santana is slow in her motions, as cautious as she is tender with pace. Two fingers easily fill a ready center. She braces a hand behind Brittany's neck, keeping her from turning away, keeping those open blue eyes fixed upon hers. It's so rare she sees her like this, every flicker of pleasure so rich, every fiber of the love she harbors so bare and _real_.

Santana feels she will unravel with her, explode just as she does. She curls within her deeper and Brittany's muscles clench around her fingers.

Blue eyes finally slam shut as her body surrenders, forehead pressing hard against Santana's as she shudders upon unsteady legs.

And when blue eyes reopen they are filled with a look that stills Santana's heart in the most awed of ways.

Brittany hasn't the voice to speak, her words still stolen with the skipped beats of her full heart. She wraps Santana into a tight embrace, burying her face against the side of a slick neck.

Her eyes close.

She is warm.

For this moment, there is only them.

* * *

The hall is laden with the stench of burnt oats, something Santana is instantly aware of as she exits their bedroom and finds her nose scrunching in effect.

Surprisingly though, it's not so terrible inside the kitchen. The evidence of their neglected morning breakfast escapes easily, thanks to the door Brittany has propped open with her boots and the window she's pulled high into its frame. Bits of falling snow melt against the thresholds, ignored save for the old tea saucers Brittany has placed overtop her boots to keep the ice from sneaking inside.

She's standing by the stove in her father's socks when Santana enters, mixing up a fresh batch of oatmeal over the open flame. Her clothes are rumpled in a way that makes a warmth settle in Santana's cheeks despite the chill of the winter air slipping inside. She watches Brittany pull her bottom lip between her teeth, concentrating as she adds a dash more milk to the pot. Quietly, so as to not give rise to her presence, Santana walks up behind her, smiling as she wraps her arms around Brittany's middle and nuzzles her face between relaxed shoulder blades.

Brittany smells of fresh hay and burnt oats and sex and Santana thinks nothing could smell more wonderful. She melts into her. "I'd apologize but then I'm not sorry at all the first batch burned," she admits, still pressed against Brittany's back, content never to move again.

She feels more than hears Brittany's chuckle. "I'm not either." Brittany taps a few fingers to Santana's wrist, a silent permission requested for arms to loosen. Santana drops a kiss to the back of Brittany's neck before letting go and grins as she notices the tip of Brittany's ears burn bright red. Brittany smiles down at her regardless, remembering the question she wished to ask. "When we finish eating I was hoping we could go to the lake?"

"I'd love to," Santana tells her, stealing another kiss before collecting the steaming kettle from the stovetop. Brittany had already seen to it that Hendrick's morning tea was waiting for her. "Let me go see if your Pa is up."

"He wasn't before I came to get you earlier." Brittany always checks, always. Even if it's just for a moment. Santana knows how affected Brittany grows after she's stepped foot in Emily's room. Her heart beats so much faster afterward.

How it will hurt her to know that her father has that same illness...

_She needs to know_ , Santana reminds herself.

She smiles up at Brittany. "If he's still not I'll leave him a note about where we've gone."

Brittany grins, nodding her thanks as she returns to fixing their breakfast. Santana fills Hendrick's usual mug with tea and checks her pocket for her mask before heading back to his room. She always keeps a couple masks on person. One she always dons before seeing to Hendrick and the other in the event Brittany were to need it. Hendrick seldom ever leaves his room and upon occasion he does it is always with his scarf.

She'd rather not the risk.

For Brittany to fall prey to this disease, especially unwittingly, she... Santana simply refuses to think of such an outcome.

She knocks on his door and secures her mask on quickly.

If Hendrick heard any of their morning activities he chooses not to mention it as Santana enters his room. But Santana doubts he has, given the way he sits with his knees raised to his chest and head buried between his legs.

She thinks it rather a stupid question to ask, give how obviously ill he appears, but ventures nonetheless, "How are you feeling?"

Hendrick doesn't remove his head as he lets out a loud moan. "Like hell done taken up home in my head," he mutters into the bed quilt trapped against his face. "Am I burning?"

Santana settles to the edge of the bed and places a hand against the back of Hendrick's neck. His skin isn't so much hot to the touch as it is damp. A sweat bodes well for his current disposition. "Not to the extent of a fever, perhaps just fatigue," she tells him, coaxing him into a far more comfortable position against the headboard. The lines of his face are heavy with the strain of sleepless nights. He does not open his eyes to her. "It's probably best you stay in today."

She notices them squeeze shut tighter. "Tell Brittany I'm—"

"I'll let her know you're taking a day for yourself," she says, purposely not allowing him to complete the same string of words he's been so unable to speak to his daughter. Her lips thin as she adds, "She'll understand."

Hendrick still hasn't so much as met her eyes. "Thank you, Santana."

She gathers his drinking cup from the night previous, pausing to take a look back down at him. He must know how difficult it's been, how awfully her stomach churns watching another sun set on a day with Brittany still so ignorant to his disease. "I hate having to lie to her, you know," she whispers to him.

And as always he lets out a heavy breath and replies, "I promise I will tell her soon."

It is not enough. " _Today_."

His eyes open at the demand. Santana's not once spoken to him in such a manner since he's welcomed her back into the home. Their gazes meet, hers steady and imploring of him an answer he feels he cannot give her yet. Death awaits him. How is he to every tell his daughter such a painful truth? How is it Santana wishes to, everyday?

How has she more strength than he?

She is far and beyond anyone he could have ever hoped for Brittany to find.

"Yes, today," he answers her, clasping her hand tightly with his own. "I swear it, Santana."

"For her sake I hope you mean it," she tells him, her gaze softening as she stands from the bed with his used cup. "We're heading out for a bit and should be back in a few hours' time."

He seems to pale simply thinking about it. "Okay."

When she returns to the kitchen and Brittany asks her if he was awake, Santana lies.

She feels a burden of weight leave knowing this will be the last time.

* * *

A blanket and old corn crate await Santana near the frozen edges of the lake. She tries to muster the same enthusiasm as Brittany but the snow is deep and her footing poor at best. Brittany's not released her hand since they stepped down from the porch, the occasional promise of only good to come passing from her lips while she led Santana through the frosted trees. Every misstep and slip of Santana's feet was caught with a steady hand and ever more caring eyes.

All for what appears shall be a picnic beneath clear skies amidst what she hopes is the last snowfall of the season.

It is cold; her toes have grown numb and her ears are sure to sport the same ice that sticks to the branches above, but Brittany's smile only widens all the more. Santana's heart no longer wishes to return to the warmth of their bed as it is set upon ensuring Brittany's smile does not falter.

Brittany helps Santana to settle upon the blanket before plopping down herself beside the small crate.

And to Santana's credit she does not once mention aloud that they've already eaten.

"Have you any guesses?" Brittany asks, drumming a few of her finger tips atop the box slats.

"Somehow you've managed to obtain Quinn's dignity and we're here to pay it a proper burial?" Santana offers, smirking proudly.

Brittany snorts despite herself, before giving Santana the weakest of reproving looks. "Don't let her hear you say that, and no, it's not that."

"I'll never guess right, Brittany," Santana tells her with a laugh as she reclines down along the blanket. She prods at the box, half expecting it to peep with the noise of newborn chicks. "For all I know you've a unicorn babe in there."

Brittany's expression turns thoughtful as she stares down at the crate. "I think the box is a bit too small for one..." She turns her gaze back up to Santana, eyes alight with possibility. "Though a dragon hatchling might fit. One of those could surely keep your ears warm on walks to the lake."

"By warm I assume you mean completely burn them off," Santana says, giggling.

Brittany stares at her a moment, looking as though resisting a roll of her eyes. "We'd obviously train it not to breathe fire near hair, Santana."

"Naturally," Santana agrees. She's about to ask Brittany to simply open the box already but the other woman carries on before she can properly form the words.

"You could wear him round your neck like a scarf, but he'd obviously not be dead, just happy to be near you like Tubbington only less fat...well at first anyway. I think they'd probably grow big real fast... and he'd probably try to eat Apple or even Pa."

Santana blinks up at her, tickled to hear how her imagined pet would adapt to farm life.

Brittany waves the entire idea away with a flick of her wrist. "Okay, no, bad idea. It's a good thing dragons aren't the slightest bit real. They'd probably kill us all just like in storybooks anyhow."

"I thought that's what knights were for," Santana notes, propping her head up onto her upturned palm. "They kill beasts and such right? Why not just hire some knights to set them in their place?"

Brittany laughs, quite hard Santana thinks. She stares down at Santana, amused as she asks her, "How about I just open the box?"

Santana smiles, nodding as she rises back into place. Brittany pries off the crate top, setting it down to the corner of the blanket that's been flicking upward in the soft breeze. Santana scoots closer to her side, peering down inside the box as Brittany withdraws out what appears nothing more than straps of tangled leather and bits of rusted metal.

Brittany cradles the mess with care.

"These were Emily's," she says, holding out a pair of well-worn ice blades. Her gaze darts down to Santana's feet and then back to the skates in her hand. "I think you're both about the same size."

Santana shakes her head, pushing them gently back toward Brittany. "Brittany, I can't take these."

"She's not using them no more," Brittany states, and is so matter of fact that Santana can do little more than gape back at her. Had she not almost broken down in her arms this morning over her sister? Brittany's eyes betray the cool level of her voice, grief as evident in the pale shade of blue as it is in the way her hands tremble the longer she holds the blades within her grasp. She extends them out further, nearly begging of Santana to release them from her hands with the motion. With an equally shaky smile she assures her, "But I asked just in case so don't worry, you won't be smited."

Santana hasn't the heart to correct her that the term is smote. She smiles instead and graciously accepts the skates, hugging them to her chest. She leans against Brittany's shoulder as she tells her, "Not really a concern I have, but thank you for thinking of my eternal salvation."

Brittany grins and drops a quick kiss to Santana's chilled ear. "You're welcome," she whispers before sliding out from beside her and crawling into place in front of Santana's crossed legs. She taps on Santana's ankles. "Here, let me help you tie them up. I was always sorry we never got the chance to do this."

"I enjoyed that night regardless," Santana tells her as she allows Brittany to rest her feet down between her knees. "It was really sweet of you Britt."

Brittany blushes, proud and thrilled as she works to fit the skates on around Santana's boots. The calm of the silent lakeside surrounds them, nothing save for the tinkering of Brittany's hands on the skates echoing across the frozen waters. She finishes tying up the last one, her fingers lingering on the weathered straps as she tucks them to a higher knot. Emily always insisted on lacing them up herself, even if after few moments on the lake she'd be tripping over herself and begging of Brittany to tie them right and proper.

"Lace me real good, Britt," Emily would demand though her grin was grateful, her gaze so full of excitement to carry on their fun. "I'm going to dance till the ice melts and you must fish me from the lake!"

"Maybe I won't lace them _that_ good peanut," Brittany would laugh in response.

She always did anyway.

Brittany pauses in her work to look now at the new owner of the skates. Santana is sat with her hands propped behind her back, eyes closed as she breathes in the morning air. Serene. Happy. "San?"

"Hm?" Santana hums out, opening her eyes just enough for Brittany to come into focus.

"I just…" Brittany begins to say, cheeks growing flustered as she finds the words she wishes to speak unable to come forward. She doesn't know how to tell Santana everything she wishes to. There is too much. How is it one conveys that her heart beats stronger today for the smile she's just shown you? To tell her that every day she stands by your side when you feel as though you're fighting to breathe is a blessing. That you'd gladly bring her back here everyday, even when the memories of someone so dear to you are still so fresh, just to hear her reason more on imagined creatures and look at you with such regard. Brittany finds the words and utters them with care, " _Thank you_."

Santana sits up straighter, uncomprehending where the sudden sentiment is born from. "I haven't done anything, Britt," she tells her softly though she feels herself warming with affection regardless.

"You don't think so but you have," Brittany tells her, moving forward until her knees fall beside Santana's thighs and her hands rest against cool cheeks. "You're the only one who doesn't look at me like I'm atrophied."

A sharp sting of feeling burrows into Santana's gut. Brittany has not told her of this. Could people truly be so cruel? To look at her as if not just broken, but worse. As if she were a waste, useless... "You're not," Santana whispers back to her with thick adamancy. "Everyone else who thinks so is _absurdly_ _stupid_."

Brittany smiles down at her as she releases Santana's face. "They're not stupid. They just don't see me like you do," she says, toying with one of the buttons on Santana's coat front. "Everyone here has always thought me... strange."

Santana grabs her hand. "Then they're idiots."

"I don't believe them. I know I'm a great person."

"Then why let them bother you?" Santana asks softly, wishing for Brittany to once more look upon her again.

It takes a moment for Brittany to answer. She thinks on the faces of those in attendance at Emily's funeral. How they stared at her from beneath their hats and whispered in corners they felt themselves safe from her ears. She'd not heard their words, they were so careful. It was the pity in their eyes that made their thoughts clear. ' _Emily had such a life ahead of her.' 'It's a pity he lost her.' 'Poor Hendrick, whatever will he do now?'_

They were so subtle…

When Brittany does answer, the pain within Santana's stomach increases tenfold. "Because I know they wonder why it was Emily who passed when they'd rather it had been me. Sometimes I wonder it too…"

"Brittany, look at me," Santana tells her, mindful to keep her voice even and her flaring temper at bay. She does not fault Brittany for her feelings, no. It is those who have planted such thoughts within her mind. Internally she seethes, but outward… outward Santana waits, patient until those blue eyes lock with hers. She pulls Brittany closer. "If anyone, _anyone_ so much as glances your way thinking such then they damn well deserve some unnecessarily painful molar extractions."

"Hurting them won't make them think differently," Brittany says with a small sigh. She cannot hold her smile though as she also tells her, "But thank you for offering."

"I mean it Brittany," Santana says, her hands finding purchase behind Brittany's neck. Her eyes are dark, stilling in their devotion. "You are nothing short of perfect and if anyone dares to tell you otherwise I will be pulling teeth. Lots and lots of teeth."

Brittany can't help it as her smile widens and she presses her forehead to the now warm one before her. "You're really into dentistry lately, aren't you?"

"I may have been reading a book or two," Santana admits before she scrunches her nose and tells her, "Have you seen the teeth of the people here? I'd _voluntarily_ carve them all new teeth if only so I don't have to suppress a grimace whenever checking throats for infection."

Brittany pulls away with a chuckle. "You're terrible with crafts though, San. Their teeth might actually look _worse_ with your help."

"Thank you for that vote of confidence, Brittany," Santana tells her dryly though ensures her gaze retains its mirth. "Truly, as if I'm not _fully_ aware of my failings as an artist."

"I wish I still had that book you made for me," Brittany admits aloud, remembering fondly every page Santana crafted just for her. "Even though your drawings were awful I used to look at it any chance I got. Sometimes I'd stay awake real late and wonder why you picked certain things to scribble. As much as you made it for me to learn my letters I learned more of you than anything at all."

Santana had entirely forgotten that book. She can't believe Brittany could adore something so crude. Something she'd made just to make their lessons pass quicker...

How they turned to so much more because of it.

Brittany begins to tie on her own skates when Santana calls out for her, "Britt?"

"Yeah?" she responds, giving Santana her full attention whilst her hands remain hovering over her feet.

Santana smiles, enamored entirely with the woman before her. "Ik hou van je."

Brittany returns the grin. "I love you too, San."

She resumes fixing the skates to her boots, humming to herself in much the same way Emily would waiting for Brittany to finish so they could dance. Her voice quiets as her heart weighs heavy in her chest. Would thoughts of Emily ever cease feeling so unbearable? She looks up at Santana, unsurprised by the accompanying concern that begins to crease dark brows. "Stop worrying for me, I'm fine, really."

"You were just looking a tad serious fixing up your laces."

Brittany's not quite sure how one looks serious doing something so simple, but she assumes Santana means how quiet she grew. Her thoughts were elsewhere, if she must be truthful. So she tells Santana, "I was thinking of when I did this for Emily and how it reminded me of something very different. You remember when we had tea with Rachel and I stayed after you and Quinn left?"

"I never quite understood why you did," Santana tells her, curious. Her expression grows apologetic though almost instantly. "Oh no, did she force you to stay and listen to her shrill on some more?"

"In a way I suppose," Brittany replies, finishing the last of her laces. "But she said something, about how she feels without Finn. That sometimes it's unbearable."

Santana scoots closer, tone quieted. "Is that how you feel now?"

Brittany nods. "Some," she answers for it is the truth. There will always be a part of her that shall unbearably miss Emily. When Santana leans over and brushes a kiss low on her jaw she also must tell her, "But you help make me feel less atrophied."

Santana kisses her then, the same all consuming way she did just that morn in their room.

The way that makes Brittany feel alive and wanted and most of all exactly where she belongs.

The lips against hers move slower, warm kisses dotted in a path across her cheek toward her ear. "Come on," Santana whispers as she picks them both up to their feet and tugs Brittany down toward the frozen lake edge. "Teach me to ice dance!"

Brittany smiles and it's the first time in weeks Santana feels that the light fully touches those blue eyes she adores.

* * *

"Quinn, that move is _illegal_."

"This is a perfectly acceptable move. You don't know shit of chess."

"I know enough to know you begin speaking crass when you've been bested," Santana tells her, amused by Quinn's frustration. She smartly points down to one of her opponents dark pieces. "And that rooks can't miraculously travel crossways like that. You've confused it for your bishop."

Quinn groans. "This game is maddening," she decides and glares with well-founded suspicion to Santana. "And you've _so_ been cheating."

"I haven't cheated a _square_ ," Santana claims, feigning affront at the accusation. Quinn shows no remorse. "Vouch for me, Britt."

Both turn toward the woman sitting in the fireside chair, awaiting her response. Brittany couldn't look more disinterested in their bickering. She is slouched across the seat, engrossed entirely in one of Emily's poetry books propped up against her lap. Her legs dangle over one of the armrests, socked feet warmed by the fire. Occasionally, when the fire burns just a tad too hot, she scratches at one of her ankles with her toes. She does so now, not even bothering to glance away from the page she's reading, and answers, "She's been moving her stubby pieces when you're not looking, Quinn."

Simultaneously, opposing exclamations meet her ears.

"Brittany!"

"I _knew_ it!"

Santana waves off the smug look Quinn has now focused upon her. "We're done with this," she says, pushing the game pieces from the board with a swipe of her forearm. They fall into their containing box with tiny, _guilty_ , clacks. "It just brings about discord."

"That would be you and your _foul play,_ " Quinn is quick to supply, still insufferably haughty. Santana thinks she has more than picked up on Rachel's mannerisms for the proud expression she wears now is _scarily_ uncanny. "Who taught you chess anyway?" Quinn asks her, ignoring the leery look that's crossed Santana's features. She's quite sure if she were to bother pointing it out she'd be met with yet another diatribe on Rachel's horrid influence upon her character.

Four is more than enough for one afternoon.

She's then thankful when that expression is quickly replaced on Santana's face in favor of the usual mirth that's been directed at her since her arrival."Well not my private _maidservant_ , that is for sure," Santana quips.

Quinn can hardly contain the roll of her eyes. "I'll have you know I did not have a private maidservant," she informs, tone clipped. Though an unfortunate blush does spread to her fair cheeks when she tells her, "It was the steward who taught me actually."

Santana's smiles, triumphant. "I feel as though the hole you've dug for yourself with all these side comments is finally deep enough for you to perhaps reach the Orient."

Quinn lets out a frustrated breath. "Oh shut up, Satan, as if you're some holy beacon of all things righteous and good."

"I don't claim to be," Santana replies smoothly, crossing her arms over the edge of the playing board. Her gaze is teasing in nature, grin sly. She motions up toward Quinn's collarbone with a few flicks of her wrist. "But that shiny new cross you've about your neck tonight might speak otherwise. Where did you even get that?"

Quinn feels her cheeks warm for the second time as she reaches up and lets her fingers brush against the small charm. "It was a gift," she says, smiling genuinely. "From Noah."

Santana arches a brow, intrigued more so with Quinn's tone than her answer.

Brittany turns another page and offers her opinion aloud, "I think it's pretty."

"You didn't even look at it Brittany," Quinn says, flippant.

Brittany merely shrugs and sinks down into a more comfortable position. "I don't really stare your breasts Quinn, only San's. Though I'm sure Noah likes yours well enough if he gave you something to wear between them."

Santana is struggling to contain the laugher she wishes to let forth.

Quinn turns her narrowed eyes from the back of Brittany's head to the dark-haired one in front of her. "Why am I friends with you both again?"

Santana scoffs and then chuckles, for really, "Because we're far superior company than the usual midget type you keep?"

Quinn doesn't immediately respond.

Santana cannot believe how long it is taking her friend to simply nod in agreement.

There were two truths in her life. She is firstly, undoubtedly, always to be in love with Brittany Pierce. And second, she is sworn, undoubtedly, to despise one Rachel Berry for all time.

So when Quinn meekly, though with some manner of clout, tells her, "Rachel is not so… terrible."

Santana has no immediate response.

Quinn ventures further. "On occasion she is, dare I say, tolerable even."

Santana finally finds the voice with which to speak at the atrocities spewing from Quinn's lips. Turning her attention toward Brittany she asks, "Do you smell that Britt?"

Brittany tilts her head back over the armrest, staring over at Santana with a quizzical squint of her eyes. Santana's senses have been known to betray her and she can't tell if this is one of those instances or if she wishes for her to agree just to spite Quinn some more. She offers out a hesitant, "yes?" just to be sure.

"That _exotic_ aroma?" Santana elaborates, and Quinn feels insulted now just on sheer lack of subtly alone.

Brittany's upside down nod is confident and surprisingly thoughtful. "Very exotical."

Quinn sputters, "That's not even a wor-"

"It's like spices are being unloaded from the Orient right before me," Santana interjects, smirking wide.

Quinn stares over the table at Santana, impassive. "I'm just going to go to bed if you both are going to keep offending me." Before she can begin to enact her threat she hastily adds, "And Brittany better be on the other side of you tonight."

"Sorry about that again Quinn!" Brittany says with her attention once more upon the book.

Quinn moves to stand but pauses when Santana's hand comes to rest against her forearm. "You know we don't mean all the fuss," Santana tells her, and for once Quinn sees true apology within her eyes. Santana gives a squeeze of her arm as Quinn sits back down. "You are our very best friend."

"Because we only have three," Brittany mentions and offhandedly also supplies, "I didn't count Rachel."

Santana smiles warmly at her.

Quinn supposes this is the best she'll ever receive in way of acceptance from them.

Santana releases her hold to sit back in her chair, smile still soft as she turns to Quinn. "Stay up with us for a bit?" she asks, hopeful. "I know Noah's been teaching you to play guitar, maybe we could try a song or two?"

Quinn can't help the amusement that comes to her face. "You do realize you sounded _uncannily_ like Rachel just then."

Santana's expression drops, mouth thinning as she purses her lips. "I think it's late," she announces after a moment, terse. "Brittany, aren't you tired?"

Brittany shifts in her chair, shaking her head. "No, I'm—"

"So very tired, yes," Santana drowns out the rest of her reply as she shoots up from her seat. "We've an early day tomorrow. So many farm creatures in need of plowing."

Brittany lets out a sigh as she turns to her side. "You don't plow the animals Santana," she explains calmly. "You _feed_ them, we went over this."

"Right, feed, got to feed the animals at dawn," Santana carries on, busily collecting their used cups and dishes from the side table. "And then off I'll go to Dr. Nelson's."

"You're so transparent Santana," Quinn chuckles as Santana hurries by her on way to the kitchen.

She stops entirely, eyes narrowed with spite as she throws back over her shoulder, "Stop talking, Quinn, or I'll switch with Brittany."

The threat is enough to silence Quinn, though reluctantly at that. Santana stalks off into the kitchen and Quinn watches her go, wary of her threat before she too heads back to the bedroom, wishing Brittany a good evening as she disappears into the hall.

Santana emerges, subsequently pleased and at once disappointment to see Quinn has retired for the night. _Presumably to ensure she not be last to bed again_ , Santana thinks. Though, she realizes, the fire is waning in the hearth and the room is cooling as the winter air slips gradually into the home. The hour draws late and as always they will need to rise with the dawn. She finds Brittany still in her chair as she makes her way toward the hall. "Brittany? Will you be coming to bed as well?"

"Yeah, I'll be right there," is the reply she's met by as Brittany closes her book. She kicks one of her feet tiredly toward the hearth. "I just need to douse the fire. I know how you don't like getting sooty fingers."

"Ik hou van je," Santana tells her, smiling as she leans her shoulder against the hall entry.

"Te ammo," Brittany says in kind. "It's getting better, I promise."

"If you want to be alone for a bit you need only ask, you know that right?"

Brittany nods, still not moving from her spot. Her eyes move to the fire, the light casting shadows across her pensive expression. "When you're not here, I go to the lake a lot. I talk to her there," she says quietly after a moment. "I've not tended to the fields since she di—" She still can't say the word without her throat closing tight.

Santana pushes off from the entryway and comes to a crouch by Brittany's side. "If you're worried for clearing the crops I'll wake up a little earlier to get the work done and—"

"No, you already wake with the sun as it is," Brittany says, turning her cheek against the armrest until her gaze falls on Santana's concerned face. She smiles sadly at her. "I can't keep you from helping the sick just because I've turned to such a moose."

" _Moose_?" Santana repeats, puzzled. "Are there even moose here?"

"I've never seen one before, they just sound like such a glum animal."

"You're not a moose, Britt," Santana assures her, brushing some of her hair from over her forehead. "I'll stay home tomorrow, if you want me to. Dr. Nelson would understand."

"That's okay, thank you though," Brittany says, appreciative of the offer. She knows Santana would drop everything for her if only she were to ask. "Quinn and Pa are here, they'll keep me company."

Santana's palm cups her cheek and Brittany also can't help it as she leans into the touch. "Not in the way I do."

"No, not like you," she agrees, smile at ease. She nods back toward the hall. "You should go to bed. I'll be there soon, promise."

"I will, I just…" Santana's words trail off as her eyes fill with hesitance. Brittany swings her legs back down and sits upright, taking Santana's hand from her cheek and threading their fingers down in her lap. She encourages her with a squeeze of her hand. Santana swallows, before asking, "Has your Pa talked to you at all today?"

"No, he's been in _there_ all day," Brittany says, unable to keep the scowl from her lips. She lets out a breath though, frustrations fading as she tells Santana, "I don't think he'll come out for a good while. He was the same when my mother died."

"Brittany, he… he's hurting with more than just grief for Emily," Santana admits and at first Brittany looks at her with bewilderment. What more could be paining him aside from the obvious? Had something upon the farm- her thought is derailed as Santana continues, voice grave. "There's something he should have told you, long ago, and now I find I _must_ because I cannot keep his word if it means betraying your trust especially given—"

"Santana," Brittany presses, heart racing as she leans nearer. "What hasn't he told me?"

Santana's eyes close before she begins, "Sometime in early January he received a letter about our capture. I can only imagine the horror and despair that crossed his mind thinking you were surely found out and put to death." Her eyes implore of Brittany's, grip tightening as she tells her, "You were so far away Brittany, and here was this… this _proof_ that you'd never return. It broke him. He was losing both of you and was _helpless_ to stop it."

"W-what did he do San?"

"He stopped using a mask," Santana confesses, her tone shaky. "Emily's tuberculosis must have set in not a week or so after we arrived."

Her father is sick.

He is sick like Emily...

"How long-" the words lodge deep in her throat. "How long have you known?"

"Three weeks." The sting of the words pierce deep into her heart. Brittany's eyes cloud with tears; with resentment. Santana surges forward, hands braced against Brittany's face as she whispers thickly, "I'm _sorry,_ Brittany. He wanted to be the one to tell you but the days went on and he kept insisting 'today', 'today' and I—Britt? Brittany!"

Brittany has ceased listening though, already on her feet and making quick strides toward her father's room. She barges in through the door, holding her blouse up over her mouth as he scrambles up in bed, shocked by the intrusion and every more so by her hissed words. " _Tell me_."

"Sunshine…" he breathes out, knowing why she's come. In the hall he can see Santana's shadow spread across the wood floor. The doctor remains hidden from his sight though, leaving him with his angered daughter alone.

"I want you to _tell me_."

Hendrick bows his head. "I've consumption."

She breathes evenly, more to quell the way tears prick at her eyes and her heart feels ready to collapse in her chest. "You asked San to lie to me," she tells him, struggling. " _For w-weeks_."

His eyes shut at the absolute pain in her torn voice. "I never meant to keep this from you for so long," he utters weakly.

"But you _did_ ," she growls.

"I'm so sorry, Brittany," he tells her in a rush of words. "There's not a minute goes by that I don't regret what I've brought on myself. And you must understand why I never told you of-"

"I _do_ understand," she counters, not daring to move closer but wishing he could see how plainly the betrayal reads in her eyes. "You wanted to protect me, keep me _ignorant_. Will you never stop thinking of me as a _child_?"

"I don't think that of you!" Hendrick is quick to respond with a few shakes of his head. "We'd just lost Emily and I didn't want to burden you more with news of my illness."

"You've known since _January_!" Brittany exclaims, blood hot in her veins. "Why not tell me then!"

"I didn't wish for you to hate me more than you already did!" Hedrick shouts, succumbing to a string of coughs. He slumps against the headboard. "I couldn't lose you..."

Brittany's eyes flash. "And you thought lying to me, having _San_ lie for you, would make that _better_?"

"I knew the wrong of it," he says, remorseful. He'd hoped to never see that look in her eyes again. That same resentment she held for him for so long returning... "I'm sorry, Brittany. Please forgive me... Ik hou van je."

She loves him... But she can't will the words to form to her tongue. She cannot forgive him, not yet.

She leaves his room before the sting in her heart can fully settle.

Santana and Quinn stand in the hall entry as she closes the door softly at her back.

She can't look at either of them.

She can't feel much of anything...

"Are you all right Brittany?" Quinn is the first to speak as she walks away from his room. "I could make you some tea, or fix you some warm milk perhaps?"

"Please?" Brittany asks, voice small.

Quinn squeezes her shoulder. "Of course," she tells her and with a look of sympathy shared with Santana, she heads off to the kitchen to fix Brittany's cup.

Brittany instantly falls into the arms Santana carefully wraps around her back. "Know there is a _very_ good chance he will overcome this," are the words whispered to her ear.

"Emily didn't," she replies bluntly.

Santana holds her closer. "Every circumstance is different."

"But this isn't. It is _her_ sickness in _him_ now. How is that _different_?"

"We caught it early and he has the proper medications; enough to last _months,"_ Santana explains, voice soft. "So long as we keep him with access to fresh air and his health in balance he can go years living with tuberculosis and not—"

Brittany pulls away, seeking the truth in brown eyes. "Will he die like her?"

Santana is overwhelmed by the absolution. "Brittany it's… it's too soon to tell."

"But he will, eventually, won't he?" She asks, feeling the numbness subside in wake of rising temper. She pushes it down, forcing her voice to calm as she implores of Santana, "Please don't lie to me again."

Santana's heart grows heavy as she answers, "In time, yes."

And even though Brittany's heart breaks, she smiles and says to her, "Thank you, for telling me."

"I should have said something _sooner,_ " Santana laments with a groan. "It was stupid of me but I just…I just wanted _so much_ for him to trust me." _To accept me_ , she thinks, feeling foolish in such a desire now.

"It's not stupid," Brittany tells her, embracing Santana for she knows why brown eyes have clouded so. "And don't you ever think you have to prove yourself for love which you more than deserve."

Santana hugs her back, burying her face against Brittany's neck. "I don't want you to lose him Britt. You've lost so much already."

"He's not gone yet," Brittany tells her, warmed as a kiss is pressed to her jaw. "And I've you."

"You've me," Santana repeats, holding her close. "Always."

* * *

The chores have been neglected the next morning when Santana wakes. Brittany is gone.

Quinn offers to make breakfast as Santana readies for the long walk to the lake.

When she arrives Brittany is lying in the center of one of their ice paths from the day before.

Santana carefully lies down beside her, wary of the creaks and groans the thick ice makes as she settles on her back by Brittany's side.

Brittany slides her hand across the ice, twining her gloved fingers with Santana's. "Everything was supposed to be better when we came home," she says, gaze still skyward. Her brow lowers over squinted eyes. "Why can't everything just be okay for us?"

It is an honest question and deserves an equally honest answer. "I don't know."

Brittany turns her head and squeezes Santana's hand tighter. "You can't get sick too, San," she tells her, voice hushed with anxiety. "I've lost _ev-everyone._ "

"You won't lose me like that." She can't promise it though. Instead she offers something she hopes will draw a smile to paling lips. "I'm far too invested in turning into a weathered old lady with you."

Brittany chuckles softly. "You won't look weathered," she tells her, turning up onto her side. The ice barely makes a sound beneath Brittany's shift. "You'll still be beautiful even when you're fifty."

"Oh, so at fifty-one I'll be hideous?" Santana asks her, scoffing in amusement. "Is that when you imagine my skin will sag, and I'll turn all wrinkly and _spotted_?"

"Maybe at sixty."

Santana laughs. "And will you still love me when I look like Berry?"

"I will," Brittany tells her, poking Santana in the side. Santana squirms beneath the ticklish touch. "But she doesn't look like that."

"You have to agree she dresses like it though."

"I do but maybe Quinn has helped her? You know, gotten her some better dresses?"

"Helped her _out_ of some you mean."

Brittany pokes her again, smirking. "They don't have sex Santana."

"That we _know_ of," Santana points out, equally wry.

She joking of course, but Brittany responds to the comment nonetheless. "Rachel would have told me."

Santana sits up and lets out an exceedingly, unnecessary, exasperated sigh. "Have you been writing to her again?" she asks, staring down at Brittany with narrowed scrutiny. "Brittany, what could you possibly have to converse about aside from both your suspicious tastes in neck wear?"

Brittany sits up as well and answers simply, "You."

Santana gapes at her, unknowing just quite how to respond.

"She knows what it's like, living as we now must," Brittany explains, tone regardful. "I ask her about her fathers mostly, you know, just how they cope and the like. Occasionally, I tell her to get nicer scarves."

Santana grows quiet, thoughtful before venturing, "What does she... what does she tell you of how her fathers cope?"

Brittany smiles as she pulls them up to their feet. "I can share one of her letters with you if you'd like. Though, as a warning, her letters are near as long as one of your medical books. The last she sent was well over _fifteen pages_. Seven alone were about how horrible your apology letter was."

Santana scoffs. "She should consider herself blessed that I even bothered to send one at all."

"I know she's annoying, and I mostly end up throwing those bits of her letters to the fire, but she's the only one who knows what we're going through, San," Brittany tells her, catching Santana before she can lose footing on their way toward the snowy banks. "Sometimes it's nice to know we're not alone."

"Will you share one with me tonight?" Santana asks, feeling need to add, "Preferably a short one?"

"Mmm hmm," Brittany nods, helping her from off the ice. She smirks down at Santana as she tells her, "And don't worry, I won't tell her."

They head back toward the farm, arms linked at the elbows.

Santana leans against Brittany's shoulder as she confesses to the truth she feels in her heart. "Someday things will be good again. I promise you that, Brittany."

Blue eyes darken, but only just. "But Pa..."

Santana halts their steps, waiting for those eyes to lock upon her. And when Brittany is looking at her, hopeful for words to inspire a better future, Santana tells her, "Like you said, you have him still, he's not gone yet." She motions out toward the lake with a smile. "And I bet he'd love it if you brought him here."

"He would," Brittany agrees, smiling softly at the sight before them.

And when the hurt in her heart has lessened, she thinks she will.

* * *

**_November 26_ _th_ _, 1863_ **

She still finds it hard to talk to him at times. A part of her always reeling, remembering the lie that tore them apart. He was patient with her after; never pressing, always kind.

It's hard to remain cross with your father when watching sickness slowly consume him.

She started bringing him his meals a few months ago and from there, they've renewed their bond. It's not the same though, Hendrick knows, for she's matured and is ever wary of what he speaks as truth. But she smiles at him now and he'd not trade anything in this world for having that back.

She's shared with him her lake.

He wishes he were fit enough to accompany her nowadays.

She seldom, if ever, needs him anymore.

He doesn't know when it happened but happen it has. She cares for him now, for all he's worked his whole life to provide her. She's stood leaning against his window frame, staring out at the far off storm clouds as they near with a look of mild concern upon her face. She's worried for her dinner, he knows. She's to play host to all her friends tonight, throw them all the greatest Thanksgiving feast any has seen.

He thinks she'll do just fine.

And she looks radiant in her dress.

So like her mother...

"You look beautiful, sunshine," Hendrick tells her, his voice long faded and raw with the progression of the wasting disease. He coughs roughly, clearing his sore throat. Brittany frowns at him, concerned but he waves her worries aside as he lets out one last cough into the crook of his elbow. He smiles up at her, once more wishing he'd no need of the mask so she could see how truly his grin spreads to his lips. How proudly he beams up at his beautiful daughter. "Well, you always do but in that dress especially."

She smiles softly down at him. "I know," she says quietly, cheeks tinged with blush. "San really liked it too."

He's more than aware. The two must have spent a better part of the morning exchanging compliments in the like. He grew rather uncomfortable whenever a lull crossed their usually clear voices beyond the wall.

The wistful smile now upon Brittany's face alludes to such remembered moments.

"How was your sleep last night?" he asks to break the silence that's fallen between them. "Did the rain keep you up?"

"Good and no, it didn't," she replies, slowly leaving the realm of her daydreams. Her gaze sharpens as she finds her father's and her smile, the one meant for him, returns. "You?"

"Not the rain, just the sore in my chest," he answers as he rubs at the aforementioned spot. He doesn't speak of the blood coughed up. No need to worry her, he thinks. Not today.

Brittany sits down beside him regardless, her attention and concern fully upon him. "Did you tell Santana about it giving you trouble again?"

"Yes, so don't you worry none," he says, giving her hand a pat in confidence. "Haven't you guests you're expecting yet?"

"Noah's gone to bring them from town."

He shakes her hand with a grin. "You best get things goin' then."

Brittany's gaze falls down to her lap. "I'm afraid no one else is coming."

Seeing her look so downtrodden clenches something fierce in Hendrick's already sore chest. "The war has been hard on us all Brittany, you know that better than anyone," he tells her softly. When she's looking back up at him he squeezes her hand as best he's able. "Let us be grateful we have those to invite at all."

She nods, though hasn't taken the words to heart as he'd hoped. "I wish it ends soon," she whispers. "Noah's scared he'll be sent back."

"He has every reason to be," Hendrick tells her honestly. It wasn't unheard of for those in Noah's position to be found and tried for their departure. Most were simply forced back to service, a punishment far more feared. So many soldiers were dying, every day... "He's lucky they've not come for him here."

"He's asked if he might be able to stay a while longer. Just until it's all over."

Hendrick immediately gives his consent. "He's welcome for as long as he needs, Brittany," he tells her, the crinkle returning to his eyes as he smiles. "I know he's been a good help to you with the harvest. God knows we've lost time what with me confined to this bed on most days."

"San gets so mad when she sees you working in the fields, Pa," she repeats to him, almost a scold but also accompanied with a small grin. She likes knowing he's well enough to toil in the crops. That he's still alive, that he's fighting.

He looks so frail.

"Oh, do trust me, I get quite the earful for it," he chuckles.

"She just wants you to stay well," Brittany tells him, serious in tone. "If you were to catch a fever or—"

"I'm right here, sunshine," he says before her eyes can gather anymore tears. "I ain't letting this take me yet."

"Please listen to her Pa," she pleads.

_Please don't go yet_ , is all he hears.

"I will, Britt," he says to her, holding her gaze. "I promise I will."

He can't leave her yet, nor does he think he'll ever be ready too.

Emily was so much stronger.

* * *

Santana hasn't seen Brittany in the home for over two hours, something which normally would not cause her worry, but given the chaos of the day's preparation ahead she's beginning to grow alarmed. Brown eyes take in the empty baking dishes along the table and countertops. Supplies are still unpacked in the crate by the stove. And the hand of the hour, how it nears frighteningly closer to noon whenever she checks upon Hendrick's clock.

Everyone will be here soon.

At the moment the house is empty save for Hendrick sleeping soundly in his chair, dressed already in his best clothes and even donning a new mask for the occasion. Noah had left earlier to fetch the Berrys and Quinn from the Inn up in town, leaving her alone with Brittany to complete setting up for their festivities.

Festivities Brittany is _adamant_ are to be the most perfect of Thanksgivings anyone has ever yet seen.

She's kept Santana up for long hours the past few nights fretting over it all.

Santana indulged her, at first reluctant to admit that she too was looking forward to the evening. But the more Brittany spoke, and the deeper the happiness rooted into her eyes, the more Santana melted to her hopes.

_The evening will be nothing short of perfection_ , she told herself as she rose this morn. No amount of overcooked stews, burnt bread or Berry's singing would ruin all Brittany envisioned for the night.

Once the rain started up again Brittany's hopes for a perfect evening began to wane.

She disappeared just as the first flashes of lightning began to fill dark skies.

Santana looks out the kitchen window, unsurprised to find the glow of a lamp shining out from the open barn doors. On any other day Santana would leave her alone, knowing there are moments when Brittany merely needs to steal away and share in thoughts only Emily is privy to. She always returns with her mind cleared and heart at ease. The "thank you" whispered to Santana's ear is made ever more sweet with the accompanying kiss placed to her neck.

She can feel the ghost of it now upon her skin.

She does not wish to break the routine they've accustomed to but she knows there are more than thoughts of Emily keeping Brittany from returning inside.

Of all Brittany's talk of the feast they will share, she's also lamented over the Hummels' missing response.

Cold rain falls down in thick sheets from the heavy layer of clouds above as Santana hurries from the house with her winter coat held tightly over her shoulders and head. Her skirt soaks quickly with the mud kicked up from her strides as she ducks within the shelter the barn provides. Brittany's not heard her enter over the drone of rainwater. She's outside Apple's stall, engrossed in feeding the horse another carrot from the bucket tucked between her feet.

Santana leans against the barn door, smiling over at her. "Aren't those supposed to be for us?"

Brittany seems to almost have expected her, the corner of her mouth showing hints of a smile as she replies, "He deserves a Thanksgiving feast too you know." She withdraws another carrot from the bucket and feeds it to Apple as she rubs his nose. "Just because he's an animal doesn't make him any less a part of this family."

"You've overfed the cows too, I see," Santana notes, realizing they've all grown quiet with full bellies and the lull of the storm taking them to sleep. And perched on the edge of their enclosure is Lord Tubbington, equally satiated and drowsy. "Ah, and Tubbington of course. Dear god is he ever fat now."

Thunder claps outside and the cat merely curls into a warmer position. Santana scratches beneath his chin as she walks by, his purr barely audible over the fading rumble overhead.

Brittany hands Santana a carrot. Even after all this time Santana's unsure how to ask her what troubles her so. She feeds the carrot to Apple, thankful for the distraction Brittany's afforded her.

She doesn't know how to bring forth Burt's name without also causing blue eyes to darken in grief.

She need not have worried though. Brittany knows why she's sought her out. And she's rather touched actually that Santana's done so at the expense of her dress for the evening. So she slides closer toward the muted woman and hands her the last carrot. "Do you think our letter made it?" Brittany asks after another round of lightning crashes overhead. Apple remains calm, soothed by the continued strokes Brittany makes down his nose. Her hand stills as she mumbles aloud, "Maybe I should have sent another..."

Santana links her arm through the one at her side. "I hope they come, Britt," she tells her, faithful in her wish. It's all she can truly offer in words of comfort. She hates the way Brittany nods with defeat nonetheless. To tell her what she feels truth, that Burt is long dead, and Kurt is too pained by memories of his father to face her would only have Brittany falling quick to that darkness that consumed her upon Emily's death. The war is still heavily underway, countless funerals held by the week in this small town alone. All Hendrick's friends are gone; near a quarter of Brittany's classmates buried too.

A selfish prayer strikes them upon sight of every plain wooden casket that is driven down the town lane.

They grip each other's hand tighter as they walk home on those days.

Brittany feels Santana take her hand in much the same way now.

"Come on," Santana whispers, tugging her toward the open doors. "Lets get you inside."

Brittany slips her hand free, giving Santana a shake of her head. She offers a small smile as Santana's brow furrows with concern. "In a bit, I just have to get the pigs their dinner," she explains and motions off to the far corner where the piglets have begun to grow restless with the sounds of the storm.

Santana pauses with reluctance, but knowing she can say no more, and trusting Brittany to her word, she gathers her coat in preparation to leave.

Brittany too is struck with reluctance. "San?"

"Hmm?" Santana hums out as she turns, hearing the shuffle of Brittany's feet in the hay strewn across the floor.

She's caught by surprise though when Brittany's lips fit against her own. It's so much more than the simple brush that's paid to her neck, the cherished feeling within her intensified as Brittany's tongue sweeps over her bottom lip. The kiss deepens as they draw closer to one another, hands twining in hair and shirt alike. Brittany cares for her, regardless of her inability to quell her pain. She cares enough to kiss her senseless and leave her legs weak. And for this moment Brittany doesn't think of lost letters and missing souls, instead her heart fills with warmth and need for woman returning her kiss so ardently.

So easily one of those boxes could have held Santana instead.

How _fortunate_ she feels to wake next to her everyday.

How much more in love with her she grows even when she hasn't the right words to say.

Lungs starve for air and they must part, still clinging to one another, faint in head and heart alike.

"Thank you," Brittany whispers, breaths heavy against Santana's chin. The brown eyes so clear before her squint just a fraction in puzzlement and Brittany leans forward, smiling into the kiss they share again. "Thank you for coming out here to find me," she clarifies against warm lips.

Santana's grin warms every last bit of her heart. "Of course," Santana whispers, tucking a section of Brittany's hair back over her ear. It's grown so much longer over the year. Her fingers linger at the ends, twirling portions between her thumb and forefinger. She looks back up at Brittany, pleased to find the woman standing before her so at ease. "Find me later?"

Brittany simply kisses her again in reply.

* * *

The storm outside persists, wind clawing at the brittle trees and rain-laden roofs. Guests of the Pierce home pay it no mind for good company and fine drink keep their attentions. Their conversations carry loud, the distant thunder rolling overhead lost to their cheerful voices.

Brittany finds it difficult to concentrate on the story Sam is telling her. Every creak of the wood steps outside has a beat of her heart skipping and her gaze darting toward the door.

She's not given up hope on Kurt yet.

Or Burt.

Sam is rolling his hand at her and she nods, not quite sure what she's agreeing to, not so much caring either. Given the smitten look on his face and dopey curve of his smile he must be talking of Quinn.

"Can't you tell when you're boring a woman to death, Sam?" Noah asks with a laugh as he steps up beside his friend. He gives Sam's shoulder a nudge. "No wonder you couldn't keep Quinn's attentions."

Sam's eyes flash before his mouth quirks up wryly. "You'd be one to talk, how long again was it that you asked for her hand?" he asks pointedly, smirk growing as Noah's face flushes. He turns back to Brittany. "Did he tell you how Quinn _giggled_ afterward? And then for _days_ whenever she saw him?"

"I told you she didn't want to marry you," Brittany tells him, sympathizing for the embarrassment it must have cost him. At the smug look that begins to cross Sam's face Brittany must also add, "Or you either."

Sam looks no less deterred by her claim. "At the _moment_ ," he says, grinning. "Just give her some more time, you'll see."

Brittany thinks Sam quite silly in his proudly declared assurance. Quinn would no more marry him than she would Rachel. Something, Brittany notes to herself, she'll need to remind Santana of before the doctor has a few more glasses of bourbon and her tongue grows far less reserved.

"Your head is full of horse shit, Evans," Noah says to him, suppressing a chuckle.

Brittany is prepared to share similar sentiments when a knock sounds at the door. Sam and Noah drop their argument, recognizing the way Brittany's eyes have widened and her breath stills.

"Go on then," Noah says to her as he gives her a gentle push toward the door.

"Only one person that could be," Sam adds, smiling as he too gives her shoulder an encouraging squeeze.

The porch outside the window is dark and the rain spills down in cascades over the roof ledge making it impossible for her to see just whom has arrived. _It must be Kurt_ , she thinks. Aside from Tina, who could not make the long trip with children so young, the Hummels' were the only family not present.

Brittany's heart races as she opens the door. A chill gust of air rushes in over the threshold and she must blink against the droplets that sprinkle her face. The rain is still beating down against the home, lighter now than it was earlier but still hard enough to drown out the greeting of the young man standing shadowed before her. He steps closer toward the firelight spilling out onto the porch, his slender form now illuminated with flickers of warm flame.

Brittany need not ask him to repeat himself. Her grin is shaky but the arms she throws around his neck are sure. "Kurt!" she exclaims, hugging him tight, thrilled to finally be seeing him in person. Kurt laughs, a sound she's imagined countless times before and yet still finds incomparable to hearing it spill from his throat now.

"I see my reputation precedes me even in passing words," he says, heart-warmed by the enthused reception. He hugs her back and wills himself not to shed too many tears. It has been a long journey, replete with cold nights in cramped inns and wrinkled shirts. But he'd gladly suffer them again to finally meet the friend he's come to know in letters alone. Brittany is every bit the delight her animated words relate, and he feels himself wishing he'd had come to visit her sooner. Some tears spill forth nonetheless as they part and as he wipes them away he tells her, "Excuse my mess, how unbecoming of a gentleman to cry all upon his host! And such a beautiful one too. How my father ever managed to overlook _this_ you in his letters I'll never know."

Hearing him mention Burt, and with such _former_ tense... Brittany tries to ignore the way her throat swells and her heart clenches but it's a fruitless effort.

Kurt notices though, eyes clouding with shared feeling. "There's no need to be a mess like me now," he tells her softly. She tries mustering a smile but it comes across a tad frightening and Kurt merely gives her another hug. "And I hope you don't mind but I've brought a guest along."

Brittany's only hope is that he's not reconciled again with Blaine.

She looks up over Kurt's shoulder to the figure now coming up the porch and out from the rain.

Kurt steps aside, full of sniffles and excitement.

If not for the water that leaks through the roof down upon her shoulder Brittany would surely think herself dreaming.

She shivers as it seeps through her dress, the feeling so very real roused by the dizzying image before her.

He looks older, so much more so than last she saw him. Wisps of greying brown hair peek out from beneath his cap, scars new and old join the wrinkled lines around his eyes and jaw. He leans heavily on a cane, pain of his leg evident in the crease of his brow, but his eyes... they're still so full of life and that same warmth that kept her spirits high after so many lonely days.

Burt's smile quivers just a touch, eyes welling with tears as he chuckles out, "Kurt _insisted_ on keeping quiet about it all until we—"

Brittany surges forward, throwing caution to the wind as she embraces the man she's been waiting to see in near a year. Her nose buries deep into the collar of his thick coat, breathing in the scent she felt lost. He hugs her fiercely in return. " _I'm so happy you're all right,_ " she chokes out, holding him at arm's length to look him over. "You are right? All right that is?"

"Discharged when my leg finally gave up on me a month back," Burt tells her and gives a knock of his cane against his lower leg. It echoes loudly across the porch. "Wood now."

She hugs him again, nearly toppling Burt off balance. _All is well now_ , she thinks. " _Thank you for coming_."

He holds her close and using his free hand rubs a hand across her back. "I'm so sorry about everything, Brittany," he whispers. "Not a day went by I didn't worry for you."

"All's well now," Brittany tells him, grinning broadly. "You're _here_."

"How about we all get in _there_ then, huh? Where it's warm and my collar won't be soiled by any more rain?" Kurt asks, motioning toward the open door.

Brittany jumps into motion. "Please come in! Here, I'll take your coats," she grins, ushering them both inside. "Merry Thanksgiving, Hummels!"

* * *

"You're really moving to Delaware then?"

Quinn takes another sip from her cup of bourbon, resisting a roll of her eyes. "We already went over this, Santana. _Yes_ , I am moving to Delaware. _No_ , Rachel is not coming with me."

Santana's eyes have narrowed to slits of judgmental disbelief. "But _Delaware?_ "

Quinn snorts, amused and smiles against the lip of her cup. "You say it as if I'm pilgrimaging to Oregon country."

"It's the _principle_ of the matter Quinn," Santana stresses, wielding the cutting knife in her hand in such a manner that has Quinn unconsciously leaning further away. Santana points it toward her with a lazy flick of her wrist. Quinn tenses. "You're going to attend _college_."

"In a town less than a _halfday's ride_ from Marysville," Quinn explains, carefully moving Santana's hand back down to the potato she'd been chopping. As a doctor Quinn has the utmost confidence in Santana's hand... as a cook though, Quinn measures her skill similar to that of a young, bungling child. As Santana resumes cutting Quinn relaxes and leans her hip back against the counter.

"I'm very lucky the Berrys are generous enough to offer me scholarship and that a women's college exists so close by. Wesleyan is the perfect fit really. Granted, the mens' college doesn't _accept_ women so I must attend the separate womens' college, but I am sure that will all be changing given the times. Our voices are _finally_ being heard, Santana! We no longer have to— you're not paying a lick of attention to what I am saying, are you?"

Santana continues her slow slices through the potato, smirk already firmly in place. "Quinn, when you go on your exceedingly long-winded righteous spiels about politics, I tend to tune you to a level I usually only ever reserve for Berry."

Quinn is ruffled, gaze squinted in indignant fury. "This all affects you too, you know," she snaps, slamming a few more potatoes down in front of Santana. "It wouldn't hurt to at least _glance_ at the reading material I send you."

"Brittany reads it for us both," Santana says with a shrug, chuckling as Quinn bristles all the more. "You should talk her ear off about it all. She's _all_ aboard your suffrage train."

"I can't tell if you're mocking me or not."

Santana smiles wide. "When it comes to Britt, I never mock," she says and gives Quinn's shoulder a friendly shove. "You really should ask her, she's very interested in all that voting stuff."

"It's not just a matter of voting power, Santana," Quinn tells her and Santana resists letting out the exaggerated sigh she wishes to. Regrettably, Quinn doesn't notice her waning attention, delving forward with even more righteousness than before. "And you should be engaging in this discussion with her too. There is so much more we are simply denied because—"

Quinn holds her tongue as Santana raises her knife in hand. "I'm just going to tell you now, before you get too far into your little speech," Santana begins to say, clearly bored in expression and tone. She shakes her head, unapologetic. "I'm not even paying you the slightest attention anymore."

Quinn groans. "It's because of women like you that we are not being taken seriously!"

"Women like me?" Santana scoffs, raising a brow at Quinn's outburst. Using the knife she ticks off against her fingertips, "Ones with their own honorary doctoral certificates, who are soon to inherit a practice, live upon a profitable farm in a relationship with its newfound proprietor who just so happens to be a _woman_ and—"

"Shut up, Santana. Just shut up," Quinn interjects, eyes closed as she squeezes a few of her fingers against the bridge of her nose. The pressure within her head does not alleviate in the slightest. Santana can always be counted upon to bring her such unneeded mental aches. Always so contradictory and... and _candid_! When Quinn opens her eyes once more Santana is staring at her with that insufferable look of triumph Quinn loathes so. For Santana is right of course. Her friend is the very picture of the movement she's grown so deeply involved with. And that above all else is what frustrates Quinn beyond measure. That her friend could be so nonchalant, could care so _little_ for the very women fighting to gain even a fraction of the life she's come to know. Resigned, Quinn settles with muttering, "I better see your face at the next rally I invite you to."

Santana smiles, genuinely, and with her next words Quinn is reminded why she considers her one of her truest friends, "Consider us both there."

Quinn returns the grin, tenfold.

It wavers though as Santana's lips curl with a hint of devious intent. "What's the uniform of choice for such occasions these days? Still shapeless frocks bent upon illustrating just how little you care for decorum when there are voices needing to be heard?"

Quinn glowers and shoves more vegetables across the counter top toward her. "Stop belittling my life choice."

"This isn't your choice, Quinn. You can't stop wanting to be _liberated_ any more than Berry can keep a music note from her vocal cords longer than a few minutes," Santana quips and adds with a sly grin. "It's also why you can't decide upon whether you wish to be with Sam or Noah."

"Firstly, while I do hold affection for both they are, as you _well_ know, entirely unwedable."

Which is, unfortunately for her friends, quite the well spoken truth, Santana thinks. "And secondly?"

As the words leave Quinn's tongue she regrets ever allowing them the second to form in her mind. "I appreciate you not also tagging Rachel to that as you have been wont to do."

Santana's smirk is her just reward. "Oh, do not press me, for I am _very_ much wont to do it. The mere fact you even pointed it out means you've thought it a possibility."

Quinn smiles broadly over at Santana with a sarcastic tilt of her head. "No more than I've dreamed of seeing your farm burn to a fiery rubble and for you to join me in my political efforts."

"Which I gather is a nightly occurrence," Santana says, mimicking Quinn's grin.

They stare at one another for a beat, Quinn now with arms crossed over her chest and Santana with that same expression now strained upon her face. The bustle of noise from the front room drowns out the softening patter of rain against the window panes.

Quinn rolls her eyes. "You are the worst friend, quite literally."

Santana reaches forward, laughing as she squeezes Quinn's forearms and tells her, "I love you so much, Quinn. You've no idea how much I'll miss you when you set off for Wesleyan to liberate other women's vagina's with—"

"Don't you even dare say fingers _or tongue_ Santana, or so help me god you won't have any left to please Brittany with."

"With _words_ of newfound scholarly wisdom," Santana continues, feigning shock. "Dear god, Quinn. There are _virgins_ present today."

Quinn's face heats and she hates the impish glint in Santana's eyes as she notices the blush spreading to her face. "Don't even look at me like that. You were _entirely_ thinking those very words."

"You said them," Santana points out, quite pleased. She jabs the knife toward the pile of remaining vegetables. "Hand me the carrots will you?"

Quinn obliges, setting them down before her and leaving a few for herself as well. If there is one thing she has learned from her time spent in the Berry household, it is that she is better left for after dinner assistance rather than preparation. Warily, she picks up the smaller knife Brittany set out for her earlier. "I don't know why we're bothering, this is going to be the worst dish upon that table."

"Brittany insisted everyone make _something,"_ Santana informs her as she lobes off a great portion of the carrot's top. "It's boiled vegetables, Quinn. We can handle this."

"It's a disaster so far," Quinn says as she takes a glance down to the crudely chopped assortment of vegetables Santana has managed to work through. She looks back up to Santana, twisting the small knife between her fingers. "You know this is the first blade I've held that isn't meant for slicing a man's skin or spreading butter?"

Santana turns her eyes heavenward. "Such a sheltered life you led, what with your Spanish Nanny, and then the French tutor, harem of maids, _steward_ —"

Quinn shoves her with a bump of her hip. "Shush you, Brittany knows what terrible cooks we are, why bother assigning us a dish at all?"

Affecting Brittany's air, Santana repeats, "' _Everyone must bring a meal to the Thanksgiving table. It is the law Santana, I read it in the president's address_.'"

Quinn stifles a laugh between pursed lips. "He said no such thing."

"There was mention… _vague_ mention of sharing time with loved ones," she explains, a warm smile crossing her face. "She took it a bit literally. And besides if you think about it, giving us this dish makes perfect sense in her mind."

"Do explain."

Santana turns back to Quinn."What is the most basic of skill sets required for boiling vegetables?" She asks, awaiting a response that ceases to manifest. Quinn stares at her blankly. Santana grunts out, "You're holding the answer idiota."

"And what of this knife? All culinary endeavors at some point require one."

"Seeing as the density of your skull is impeding thought," Santana tells her before wincing as Rachel's voice raises several octaves in song. "Though I will also accept an excuse of Berry's singing causing you unneeded mental strife. How about I simplify it for you?" She says, picking up a loose piece of paper from the tabletop. She holds it out for Quinn to read. "What does this look like to you?"

"A page from your medical journal," Quinn answers immediately, recognizing the small borders on the diagrams and finely lined script. She frowns, eyes once more locking upon Santana's. "Why've you torn it out?"

Santana forces the page into Quinn's hand with a roll of her eyes. "Dear god Quinn, look at it for more than a second will you."

Quinn sees no reason to reacquaint herself with the world of medical science, but given the temperament of her friend she complies. The drawing within the diagram is the first thing to take her notice for it's clearly a carrot. "Its… it's a recipe," she says, astonished. Even the usual symptoms index has been replaced with proper cuts to garner the freshest taste. "But… I've never seen one like this."

"Brittany created it for me," Santana tells her and Quinn can't help but notice the pride laced thickly in her tone. She glances sidelong at Quinn, smiling as she adds, "Well, for us I suppose."

"That's rather clever of her," Quinn says, impressed by the thought put into the page.

Santana beams. "It is." She takes her knife cleanly down through one of the carrots. The slice is near perfect in execution. "When you think of them as fingers and it's not so bad."

Quinn swallows down the bile that's just risen to her throat at such an admission. "You're _entirely_ morbid, you know that right?"

Thunder clashes in the distance and Rachel begins singing just a tad louder.

"Berry!" Santana shouts out across the kitchen to be heard in the front room. "I swear to whatever inane god you pray that if you start up another rendition of that damn awful song again I will force you to sleep in the barn beside the fresh pile of Apple's shit!"

To which Quinn also decrees, "I second that!"

"Do not fall to her trappings Quinn!" Rachel hollers back, though smartly remains hidden from sight. "And it is impossible for you to invoke such an ultimatum upon me Santana, I'm not even _staying_ with you all!"

Brittany peeks her head inside the doorway as Rachel instructs Noah, loudly, to begin the song anew. "San," she warns as she enters through the door and closes it at her back. "I know shes annoying but please be nice, it's Thanksgiving."

Even Brittany's request cannot stop her from ranting on regardless. "And this is _our_ home and I won't have her giving poor Quinn and I anymore head pains."

Brittany relents, "… she is a tad loud."

"And grating," Santana adds.

"And at times a nuisance," Quinn offers.

Another voice joins in the song, its cadence softer; refreshing.

Both Quinn and Santana leave their knives along the counter top to listen.

"Who's that with her?" Santana asks.

"Oh, that's Kurt," Brittany replies, picking a chopped carrot from Santana's plate and popping it into her mouth. "Him and Rachel are gettin' on real well but then I knew they would. He's just like her Pa's _and_ he's already promised not to charge her for any outings they take together."

Sheepishly Quinn admits, "I've not done that in months."

"Are they… _harmonizing_?" Santana asks, at once appalled and captivated.

"It's as if she's multiplied," Quinn says, similarly affected.

Brittany watches as they fall silent again, both women clearly enjoying the performance despite their pitifully uttered claims otherwise. She smiles as she takes another bite out of the raw carrot. "Do you want me to make them stop?"

They both shake their heads though Santana is the one to offer a quiet, "No…"

Brittany sneaks up to her back and presses a light kiss below Santana's ear. "Will you two admit they actually sound lovely together?"

That seems to break her trance. Brittany laughs as Santana rushes out a quick counter. "And forever give her ammunition to gloat?"

"They are rather good together though," Quinn notes honestly.

The daggers glared to the side of her face as they resume cooking don't sway her opinion in the least.

For all her complaints on Rachel's dramatics, Quinn thinks Santana just as guilty of them.

* * *

Santana sits on the outskirts of the festivities, chin nestled in the palm of her upturned hand, watching with a tipsy serenity those she's come to call her friends and family. Her elbow digs uncomfortably into the splintered wood of the barn utility table but the liquor in her belly does well to numb the sensation from reaching her mind. She's far too at ease and _happy_ to care for something so inconsequential.

Not on this night. It is her first tradition as a member of the Pierce home.

She wishes to remember it all, every sight, every laugh, even the lingering smell of the last bits of ginger cake lying on her plate.

The meal was hardly worthy of being deemed a feast, but to Brittany and those sat around the table it was the finest of Thanksgiving suppers.

She's also rather proud of her boiled vegetables, even despite their lackluster reception.

Brittany liked them well enough and her opinion, after all, was truly the only that mattered.

Brittany stands by the window now, gone the smile that seemed a permanent fixture upon her face throughout the evening upon the Hummels' arrival. Santana's heart sinks at seeing the somber expression Brittany wears as she relights the candle on the sill. She'd lit it for Emily earlier, "So she can be with us tonight too," she explained when Santana had asked. Santana had held her tightly from behind afterward, assuring her in whispered words that Emily would not miss tonight for all the poets in the world.

It had cheered Brittany's mood as desired. They shared a kiss and Santana, much to her restraint, managed to overlook the squeal of proud delight from Rachel as they parted.

Berry meant well of course, no matter how tactless her approach.

Santana wishes to bring that light back to Brittany's eyes, remove the touch of grief that sometimes still consumes her when night is at its darkest. But she remains seated, watching as the candle wick flickers with new flame, the glow returning Brittany's smile all its own.

It's demurred though, thoughts of Emily still heavy in her heart.

She glances sidelong, eyes locking upon Santana's. Her lips pull wider, grin growing more relaxed, content. The hurt vanishes. "Te amo," she silently mouths.

Santana curls her fingers, now tingling with warmth, closer to her chin. Her knuckles obscure the large smile on her face but barely at that. Brittany sees it, reads the returned sentiments held within the dark brown of those softened eyes she loves so. With a crinkle of her nose Brittany motions for her to remain seated.

And Santana does, for she's also quite sure her feet have found home elsewhere in the wake of the alcohol now clearly spreading through her veins.

Brittany carefully steps back from the candle, pleased as the flame continues burning bright. She lets out a yelp as Sam sweeps her into a drunken dance with a chuckle against the harmonica trapped between his lips. She laughs with him, entertaining his stumbling steps before spinning him down to rest beside Noah. He slumps with nay a pout, grinning broadly into his instrument. She accepts the hand LeRoy extends to her in invitation next and throws an apologetic look back Santana's way.

Santana doesn't mind. Watching Brittany dance has always been one of her greatest joys.

And LeRoy is a fine dancer, making the pair all the better. Brittany easily keeps in step, enjoying herself and her favorite Berry's company. Santana knows they've been exchanging letters, each subsequent one growing in length and regard.

" _We're not alone, Santana",_ Brittany once so astutely told her.

_And she was right_ , Santana thinks, fond and proud. _She is always right_.

Sam proves a much better accompaniment to Noah's guitar strums than a dance partner. Together they strike up a favorite, and even wallpapered as they are, it's still an excellent rendition.

As Brittany and LeRoy pause for drink Santana takes a moment to observe the rest of their company. Her friends are scattered about the front room, Quinn the closest just a chair away, deep in conversation with Hiram on topics Santana would no sooner add her opinion lest she wished to suffer another of Quinn's long-winded rants on her lack of social responsibility.

The rest of the plates lie untouched and empty along the short line of tables Brittany arranged earlier that afternoon. How she ever managed to maneuver the old barn table inside without a scratch Santana attests to her devotion for the holiday. Let alone that it was done with the ground sodden from the earlier storm. Santana recalls the smile upon Brittany's face as she pulled it inside, how bright her eyes were as they filled with a crackle of excitement for the evening soon to come. She remembers the mess of mud Brittany tracked across the floorboards, how great swaths of it slicked high up on her slacks... the small desire that flared within her to brush away the flecks of wet dirt sprinkled over flushed cheeks.

Rachel had entered then, ruining any such moment as she was seemingly predestined to do. She'd the better sense upon seeing the scowl work its way across Santana's face to hold up the two bottles of bourdon she and her fathers had bought for the supper.

Santana set her to cleaning the floor anyway.

Her eyes scan the room now in search of her insufferable friend. She hears her first, even with the deafened quality of her ear. She's sat down the table with Kurt, unsuccessfully trying to squeeze the entirety of her life's worth into one breath. And Kurt, bless his soul, listens with strained patience, waiting to do the very same.

_Kindred spirits in voice and vexation alike,_ Santana thinks, leaning forward over her supporting arm more. She listens for a short while as Rachel expresses desires to move to the capital with her mother, waiting for the pause that never comes.

Rachel has Kurt held captive in her fanatic gaze. "She's quite the influence over a great many, shall we say, men of _persuasion_ , and has promised me that this farce movement is fast coming to an end! If I-we, if _we_ were to seriously consider careers this revival of form back to its most-"

The words begin to run together into a mess of sound she at once finds endearing in its exasperation.

Rachel will never know of it though.

Santana turns her attention from them with a roll of her eyes. Hendrick's soft snores from where he now naps reclined in his fireside chair are far more endearing a sound. Burt is on the verge of joining him in slumber, both lulled by the warmth of the flames and soothing strums of the guitar Noah plays from his spot sat propped against the wall with Sam. He smiles up at her as he catches her staring and gives a wink before striking up familiar song.

Her cheeks heat regardless as _Long, Long Ago_ carries throughout the room.

LeRoy drags Hiram to his feet.

His once blonde partner is now gone from sight.

Hands slip over Santana shoulders, touch tender and warm.

"Found you," a soft voice whispers to her good ear. "Dance with me?"


End file.
